I look up from my phone and see you looking. And then you turn away. I glance at my phone again, and make out that I have a life that doesn’t involve you. When I’ve done scrolling shit, you are looking at me again, and I see the colour in your cheeks, like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t have been. I realise that you are still a child who wants to be a man, a boy from a scabby family whose mother still buys his underwear. But from horse shit beautiful flowers can grow, with its gorgeous stem, delicate petals, and an impressive penis. You walk away and sling a bag over your shoulder and I like to think that it contains a copy of The Boys on the Rock, a book I once read about the coming out and first love of a gay sixteen-year-old swimmer.