I had read that although homosexuality was decriminalized in China in 1997, a strong stigma still prevailed. Four out of five gay men end up marrying women, or so the unofficial statistic went. On my first free Friday night, I hopped into a cab with a few addresses from the Internet: places where gay men might convene. But every establishment I visited was closed, save for a seedy-looking sauna that I did not want to enter.

About a month later, taking advantage of a weeklong national holiday, I flew to Shanghai to see my brother, who had a business there. During this visit, I met a young man in a mall. I was riding an escalator down; he was gazing at me from above. He wore a pink sweater, which complemented the rosiness in his cheeks. On each of these, a dimple now appeared. I turned around and rode the escalator back up.

You also know this place?" he asked.

Sorry?"

He seemed disappointed with my answer. Conversation faltered. After a while, I decided to try my luck. "Would you like to come to my hotel for a drink?"

Afterward, riding in the taxi with Yang, he explained: that particular floor in the mall was an unofficial "rendezvous spot."

In my hotel room, Yang, who seemed tense until then, finally relaxed. It turned out that he was a migrant worker from Anhui, a province notorious for its poverty, waiting on tables 28 days a month for less money than it costs to see a Broadway show. I watched him undress from my bed, folding each piece of clothing into a square. "I’m too skinny, you must think," he said. "Hope you don’t mind."

I was caught off guard. "You know something?" I finally recovered enough to say. "You’re cute when you smile." Yang blushed. "Can you turn down the wind?" he asked. He meant the air-conditioning. "Sure," I said. But no matter what I did with the remote control, the air-conditioner did not respond. Apparently, Yang had never slept in an air-conditioned room before. Later that night, as we dozed off, our bodies intertwined to keep warm.

When I woke up sometime in the early hours, we had disentangled. At first I did not even remember about Yang, but soon I made out a breathing sound over and above the noisy air-conditioning. In the darkness, his silhouette slowly formed before me. I looked at his face wonderingly. What was it like to be this boy?

Then a thought crossed my mind. My brother had warned me against petty theft. "The holiday week is the season for crime," he said. A lot of people come to town to get work; if they don’t get it, they need money to go back home.

Was my wallet where I had left it?

Of course it was. Otherwise Yang wouldn’t still be there. I put my arms around him. The air-conditioner blew with a vengeance. I clung to Yang even more, shivering, helpless to stop further thoughts as they came: if this stranger were to get up now and take everything -­ my money, my cards, our warmth -­ could I blame him? Should I feign sleep and let him?

In the end, nothing that dramatic happened, but after our night together, everything became imbued with what I now see as a certain fatedness. We left that third-rate hotel in the morning. I took Yang to a breakfast place specializing in bean curd and dough sticks. I asked him what he wanted; then, while he found us a seat, I paid for his meal. After breakfast, because my brother would be arriving soon, I sent him on his way.

It was here I made the mistake. I hailed a cab and handed Yang money to cover the ride. Because I had already opened the door, he had no choice but to get in. But because the offer was too direct, he would not take the cash from me.

Even as I waved goodbye, I understood that as soon as I was out of sight, Yang would order the driver to stop the car. He would get out and walk the rest of the way. 

Yew Leong Lee is a Singaporean writer and video artist whose work has been shown in China, Singapore, Germany, France and the United States.