I am in a barber’s shop. I tap on my phone. A few minutes to write something. Anything.

The door opens and mother and son walk in. She is miserable. Poker face. He is cheerful. About fourteen or fifteen.

I am more interested in writing a paragraph. The words are good, and I step into my creation.

When I look up, the boy is watching me, grinning. Poker face glares at nothing. I go back to my phone and write some more.

Five minutes pass. I look up and he is still looking at me. And I think, I am watching you, watching me.

I chat shit with the guy who cuts my hair. When he is finished, I make to leave.

The boy smiles and scrutinises me, but Poker Face scowls.

And just as I am about to walk out the door, cheeky grin crosses his legs, and now I am certain.

I want to say to his hideous mother that her son is gay. But if I do, she will probably cry.

Last night I had a dream.

I dreamt that I was a lonely old man living in a rundown flat in an unfamiliar city. I dozed in a battered old armchair, and the doorbell rang. I dragged my old bones and looked out of the window. Outside there were dozens of young men. All of them handsome and athletic. These boys looked vaguely familiar. I excitedly waved them up.

They walked through the door into the gloomy room. But wait. What’s this? These weren’t young boys. Instead, a procession of old men walked in. Unkempt old men. Fat and bald. Like me. I stared at them. Such disappointment.

And then I realised that these were people I had once loved, liked, and given into temptation.

But amongst them was a young man in his twenties, and I was quite taken with him. I asked him why he was with these old men.

“My name was Tom,” he said. “And you were someone I once loved. You were the only one I ever loved. But you ignored me because you said I wasn’t good enough. I vowed that when I died, and I died young, that one day I would come back and show you what you missed.”

All the old men laughed and jeered.

Archer wants to be a model and writer but will fail at both because he is too shy. Archer tells me he has completed a photo shoot where he had to dress as a 1920s lad. He asks me if I would like to see the photos. Back at his apartment I tell him the photos are good, and when he shows me his writing I am impressed. But I am struck by the fact that Archer sucks his thumb like a child and tells me he has an addiction for unrequited love and loves the pain of romantic rejection. He likens it to a craving for cocaine. There are always secrets that need to be discovered.