There is James, my co-worker at the gallery in 鰂魚涌, who takes a cigarette break on the rooftop at around 3pm every day. He looks at the water in the harbor: a muted, dull sheen of blue. Its stillness communicates an openness, as if waiting to be changed. There is the nameless man in a Stanley Stellar photograph from the 1980s, who has a pack of red Marlboros fastened onto his shoulders by the strap of his tank top. There is James, who visits the same bar, The Green Arch, every weekend to hang out with his boyfriend. There is James’s boyfriend, who is a bartender at The Green Arch. There are some days the boyfriend is annoyed that James is there when the bar is busy. And there are some days he is pleased that James is there. James, loyal and loving as a dog at the door. There are all the gay men in New York City who are as real to me as Greek gods. There are mock neck sweaters. There are mohair scarves. Belt buckles. Studded harnesses. Musk, tobacco, and vanilla. There are all the men who want to be known as men. There are all the men who do not want to be known as men. There is Danny in that shocking pink trucker jacket on the Amtrak, who explained how Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s essay, “White Glasses”, changed his life, and how the album of Cher covering ABBA songs got him through an all-nighter. There are many days in which James’s boyfriend is grateful that James exists. It is a gratitude the boyfriend does not know how to express yet, so he keeps it as a secret for now. There is James, who I have not talked to since I left Hong Kong months ago. There is James, who I have not talked to a ton even when I was in the office with him. There are many men who will not like me. There are many men I hate and want to become. There are many men I am jealous of. There are the men who kick you out the door once they’ve gotten what they wanted. And out of all the men, there is 永飛, who learned Cantonese because of me. 永飛 sent me an interview of his, recently published on his school’s website. The interview is titled Learning My Best Friend’s Language. 永飛 said that because I knew his language, Mandarin Chinese, he wanted to do the same for me by taking courses in Cantonese. There are few men who will communicate with you in all the languages you know. There are many men I am attracted to without knowing their language. There is Lukas, the exchange student who I thought was making a move on me in the theater, when he was really just adjusting his coat, and his sleeve grazed against my neck. There is Jack Twist, who dies at the end of Brokeback Mountain. There are many men who die at the end of the film. There will be many men who will make you feel dead. There will be the men I’ll write about who will live at the end. There are the two Davids I know. There is the David who is my grandfather. Before he died, I promised him I would study hard and be a good boy. There is the David who is a dancer in Brooklyn. In a performance, he strutted across a dark stage in eyeliner, mink, stilettos, and I wanted to be nothing but bad like that. There are many men I don’t know at all, but I still write about them as if I know them. Like James’s boyfriend. I imagine him with a right arm covered in tattoos. There are two tattoos I see most clearly: one of the Loch Ness monster that snakes down his bicep, one of a My Little Airport quote in a cursive font that loops across his forearm. I imagine him with permed hair. I imagine his patience, as James whines about the office drama in 鰂魚涌, and the boyfriend just wants to make a drink for the guest who has been waiting for a bit too long. I imagine the boyfriend’s shy smile as James gets even more drunk, screeching a My Little Airport song, and the boyfriend is deciding if he wants to pretend not to know James. I imagine all the times the boyfriend has tried to express his gratitude. I imagine the poem the boyfriend writes. There are many men I will leave behind. There are many men I will become. I think I saw James today on the street. I wanted to say hello but I didn’t.