Charlie moved into the apartment without being invited. He’s now moved into my bed without being invited either. The fact is, I could have said no on both occasions, but I didn’t. I was caught up in the excitement of having him around. 

The room has filled up with his belongings, the wardrobe full of his clothes, and I’m no longer the master of my own bedroom. The other day he lay in bed and decided that the walls needed repainting. “We must paint them white,” he said. “White is clean and bright. It becomes a blank canvas, and is a colour that can be influenced by light.” And then he went back to sleep because he comes to bed late and sleeps until late morning.

He’s also bought an old metal trunk that is a relic from World War Two. It is black with the name of ‘Charles Finch’ stencilled on it, and conjures up images of being shipped around the world. Charlie paid sixty quid for it in an antiques shop and thought it would be ideal to store bedding. The top of it has become a place to display his books, those that he never reads, and are a statement to show me that he is an intelligent artist.

I mentioned that his old bedroom was spare and that it might be utilised as a store room, or rented out for extra money, but Charlie insisted that he had plans for it. “It would make an excellent studio,” he said. “I could use it to paint and take photographs. That room might make me famous.” The following day he dismantled the bed and stripped the room bare, but he continued to paint sitting in his underwear on the floor of the living area, or, if the weather was sunny, on the terrace outside.

But Charlie eventually turned his attention to the ‘studio’ and set up a camera and tripod facing a bare wall that could be reinvented as stonework in the Vatican, the alter of a Basilica, or any place that looked remotely Catholic, where he could pose half-naked. Every shot was taken using a timer but occasionally I’d be asked to focus the camera and take the photos.

The other day, Levi, the Polish boy with the broad Yorkshire accent, made a rare appearance at the apartment. 

“I want to know what’s happening between you and Charlie. I see that his room’s empty and that you’re sleeping together. You’ve got to admit that Charlie’s special. I’m so fucking jealous.” 

I’m glad that Levi’s jealous, and it makes me feel good, but I don’t have the answer. I’ve no idea. Charlie shares an apartment, and a bed, but I can’t say that we’re lovers because we aren’t. Not once have we engaged in sexual activity, and there are no signs that we will. I’ve decided that this is one-sided love, and I will be the one who will suffer.

“Nothing is going on,” I tell him. “And considering that you’re a straight guy, don’t you realise that you sound very gay.”