A bottle of Amstel. Or should I say several bottles. I remember that day well. It was a hot afternoon and the hot dry winds cut across the island. They were Meltemi winds. We were oblivious and both burned. When the evening came we tired and traipsed home past the parched olive trees to collapse on our separate beds. Our day ended early. I woke briefly as the Cretan skies darkened and looked to where you slept under those thin sheets. I thought about the things we had learned about each other. We both thought The Outsiders was our favourite movie, and we both loved Canadian Matured Cheddar. In that moment, between sleep and wakefulness, I thought you were the most beautiful person in the world.

It is a quiet Tuesday and Bad Boy Jamie walks into the bar with his boyfriend. It is time for me to leave and I am about to book an Uber. That important moment comes when you either confirm the booking, or take the risk and stay. My finger hovers over the button, and Jamie whispers in my ear and tells me to stay because he has missed me. I don’t know what to do. I realise that I’ve missed him too, but I also now that he is a total cunt. I look at his messy hair, and unshaven face, and think that at that moment he is the handsomest guy imaginable. But I confirm the Uber booking and say that I have to go home. Later on he messages me and says that I am the only person he wants. I punch my pillow in frustration.

Bad boy Jamie comes in with a crowd, and he plays up to them. His boyfriend comes over and tells me that Jamie is a cunt because he is sleeping with somebody else. I hate to tell him that it is me. But the boyfriend is right. Jamie is a cunt.

Jamie looks over and pretends that I don’t exist. But that boyish charm and those tattoos still make me weak. And then, bad boy Jamie and his boyfriend start arguing about a lad called Jordan who Jamie has been sleeping with. I am hurt and jealous. They start fighting and I’m glad that I can sit in a corner and look at their life unravelling in front of me.

Bad boy Jamie, I do so think you are exciting.

I love the fact that you fight and carry a knife in your sock. A flash of blade means a flash of leg and that tattoo on your ankle that says ‘Jamie’.

And you come to realise that appearances can be deceptive. The clean handsome boy turns out to be an alcoholic; the athlete is hooked on drugs; the sweet angel is a megalomaniac; the mean looking boy, with hoodie and sweatpants, turns out to be polite and eloquent; the bad boy with tattoos reads classic literature.

A little rent boy who is quite cute with peach fuzz on his lip comes in. He talks to the ugliest meanest fuck who is stood next to me. He never even gives me a glance. Eventually, he turns his attention to me, and asks me to buy him a drink. I tell him to fuck off. But he doesn’t because he’s obsessed with the ugly fuck stood next to me. He introduces himself as Regan, I shake his hand. And then ugly fuck says that rent boy has bad breath and I act as if I’m bothered. Truth be known, I am a bit bothered because I quite like the little fucker:

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.