“I need to tell you my American queer love story,” Brise says: a sort of tamed craziness in his wide, green eyes. He has parted lips, chapped. He has thick eyelashes than any woman would desire: curled, black as night, almost feminine. He’s more beautiful than handsome, Jason derives.
“What do you call your love story?”
“It doesn’t have a title. Should it?”
“Only if you want it to, Brise. Your life. Your decisions. The rest is irrelevant. Remember that we’ve discussed this?”
He nods. “I don’t want it to have a title.”
“So be it. Tell me what you story is.”
Brise begins, “Lee Hardwick, my friend, I’ve talked about him before. Beefy and gorgeous. Someone I want to f**k around with. Someone I could maybe love. We meet for lunch the other day. He looks at me across the two-person table.
