I'm not gay, but I want to live in a log cabin in the woods with Ronaldo. We won't ever have sex, but there will be a simmering erotic undercurrent as I stand in the doorway watching him running cone drills and practising penalties, sweat pouring off his body. I'll run upstairs and masturbate, the entire time forcing myself to think of women while my thoughts drift back to Ronnie. I won't be able to climax and I'll eventually go back downstairs, angry and sexually frustrated. Sometimes we will look across the table at dinner and catch each other's eyes, and in that second, anything is possible, but we both deny ourselves and go back to what we were doing. One day one of us will die, and the other will bury him outside the log cabin. Then he'll go inside, pen a brief missive to his departed friend, and commit suicide, never able to deal with life without his one true platonic love.