I am lying on my stomach with one leg jackknifed out artfully, trying to make the vast, snowy expanse of my arse look slightly less huge. The boy is standing beside the bed and puts his long, slender hand on my thigh. "This is beautiful," he says. "I don't understand why you are ashamed of it." He sounds a little sad.
We are studying unarmed fight techniques for stage combat, and our instructor reminds us not to think too much when we do forward rolls, a sort of modified somersault. "When you think too much, things fall apart. Like in the rest of life."
My best friend, a fellow actor, turns to me. "You're fucked," he explains.