As the narrator of Kevin Langson’s story “Brooding Intervals” explains his relationship with Mohsen, “We’d been meeting for sex, and increasingly, a bit of conversation and commiseration, for roughly six months.” So begins this tale of an afternoon told so deftly that it isn’t until the end that we’re sure whether we’re seeing a relationship taper into nothingness or flame into something. There is tea accompanied by conversation, affection, and anxiety, sweetened with humor, and tangy with sensuality.
Here’s an excerpt from this story that arrived in our mail just when we needed it. I’m so glad it’s part of the anthology.
[Mohsen] turned slowly toward me, as if trying to draw a connection between what was happening on the street and me, and I again caught a glimpse of the unfathomable in his eyes. Sometimes they shimmered with intimate promise; other times they seemed to feign vacancy so that I wouldn’t bother trying to penetrate his thoughts. I hadn’t truly tried. I no longer trusted my perception of profundity. I’d so many times swooned for some force or curled up beside some warmth that soon revealed itself to be illusory. San Francisco was a city of transient affections.
Mohsen listlessly ran a finger over the window ledge, and then seemed to scrutinize the sizable ball of dust that had collected at its tip… He looked down at the dirty windowsill. I thought, Why don’t I ever clean anything?
…Suddenly my thoughts shifted to what Mohsen was like with his other lovers. Was he safe? Was he rough? Did he tend toward domination, as he did with me? Was there the same complicated interplay of tenderness and sullenness?
He rose and walked over to the tiny kitchen in the right corner of my open square of a home. He opened a cupboard and sifted through my boxes of herbal tea, not seeming to find anything to his liking. Though it was the first time that he’d made himself at home in any part of my apartment other than my mattress, it seemed natural somehow.
I said, “When I was about eight and my sister announced that she was going to vet school, I was horrified, and I pleaded with her to choose another path and with my mother not to let her, much to the dismay of both of them. I had seen enough ratty guys by the highway holding cardboard signs that said HOMELESS VET that I figured she was fated to become a mistress of the streets.”
He turned the knob to ignite the flame of the back burner, occupied by my black kettle, and then turned toward me without looking directly at me. “I’m sure there’s a reason you are telling me this, but it eludes me,” he said without unkindness. He turned back to the counter to prepare his pomegranate tea.
“I’m prone to being concerned for people I care for, though it’s sometimes misguided or awkwardly expressed.”
I watched minute shudders ripple across his backside. I pulled down the burgundy afghan from the top shelf of my closet and draped it over his shoulders as he poured honey. Timorously, I kissed the spot above his collarbone where a few stray hairs sprouted. I found it strange. Moments earlier we’d been swept up in a brazen, wet sex embrace that was beastly and gentle, in turns. But now this gesture brought a tremble to me. I half-expected him to pull away.
You can read the rest of “Brooding Intervals” in Best Gay Romance 2014, on sale now in trade paperback and ebook format.
Excerpt reprinted with permission from Cleis Press. All rights reserved