I can still remember it, though the details are of course a little more hazy now. I remember us meeting at the retro clothing store in Camden, run by a very unfriendly man who only allowed one “night time” shopper in at a time. This is the name he used for anyone who took their time browsing. Strange man. You were there, moving casually between the overcoats and the corduroy, making a very bad job of pretending you weren’t watching me from the corner of your eye. I’d seen you around before - in the market, on the bus. We always played this game - I’m sure I was just as unsubtle about looking at you. But I remember how I felt that first time you broke the ritual by speaking to me, like a dog-eared page in a storybook had finally been turned to reveal the most colourful of pictures, making you fall in love with the tale all over again. If only I could remember exactly what it was you said! You told me your name was Peter - my father’s name - and we found out we didn’t live too far apart. You gave me a lift home after only briefly indulging a devilish flirtation of mine to steal a tailcoat from the miserable man at the retro store, but good morals won the day and we left it folded across a discount bin. When we drove past your flat I remember it being the most familiar location I could think of - opposite a square building topped with four green pointed domes that made it look like a giant pistachio pavlova might. It seemed a fairytale place to live and such a familiar local landmark. Though, of course, the streets and buildings around it are now little more than a hazy memory. We chatted about nothing remarkable - about how long we’d lived in North London, where we were from originally, jobs, friends, university - nothing remarkable at all.

We got back to mine and I invited you in, it was only polite after driving me back. I made some coffee (which was awful, and I still apologise for that) and we watched TV in my room, the walls still bare and white as we’d only moved in recently. “I have a terrible secret,” I remember you saying as we lay on the bed, staring in polite disinterest at the screen, and then gave one of your endearingly impish grins I would get to know so well. “I’m a huge Doctor Who fan. Can you ever forgive me?” “I forgive you,” I laughed, and we shared a sort of mock-reconiliatory and quite melodramatic hug in front of my antique copy of The Robots of Death.

My flatmate then came in and joined us briefly. You both got along astoundingly well, discussing the merits of charity shops and the national institution that is Sir Tom Baker. You were charming, there’s no doubt about that. But you were also genuine. You had this ability I only ever sensed at before to pick up on people’s interests and make them resonate with your own.

Alone again, we watched TV together in unspoken conversation. Soon we started cuddling. When I brought my hands up to the back of your neck and gently and slowly scratched your scalp you weren’t alarmed. You just sighed - a deep contented moan, like anticipation finally released. It didn’t seem a strange thing to do. It felt completely natural. It felt as if we’d been seeing each other for weeks, not a few hours. I felt as if I knew everything you were thinking, and knew that you felt just as much a connection with me too. Last night I went to sleep cuddling you.

But this morning I woke up alone.

I woke up and wondered ‘what kind of self-hating brain gives someone dreams like this?’ What kind of loathing is it that gives someone contentment - not grand impossible scenarios of flying or being Emperor of All The Light Touches, but genuine, humble, credible contentment - knowing it will then be snatched away with the slightest flicker of an eyelid? I woke up in a bed that stinks of myself, cuddled only by my own eczema and a sickness in my stomach from last night’s overindulgence.

But I can still remember your black hair, your impish smile, the hazel like a summer cornfield in your eyes. I’ve spent the morning desperately trying to remember your surname, desperately trying to remember the name of someone who never existed, just because they loved me and made me feel important for the few seconds they say a dream actually lasts. A few seconds. Was that all it was? I was content for a few seconds. I was a person who mattered to someone for less than a minute.

Dreams are generally a positive thing in human culture. People talk about ‘living their dreams’. Are dreams only torturous because of their stark contrast with our real lives? It’s always about the loss with me. It’s always the bit where you wake up and realise you’re clutching only air, grasping at quickly fading memories of events that never happened. With nightmares you wake up and are relieved that everything’s still as dull and uneventful as it was when you closed your eyes. With dreams where you’re happy, you wake up to unhappiness amplified.

I suppose it’s better to have loved and to have lost than to just dream about eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Again. Or the end of the world. Again. I’ve had the dream about The Perfect Man™ before, and I know I’ll have that again too. I just wish it didn’t make everything real appear as futile and pointless as I know it to be when I wake up from the dream, each and every time.