Excerpt: If Prometheus Wept in Winter

He had no other recourse. He watched Miroslav because Miroslav was the only man he knew - the only man he had ever truly known - and took note of how he moved. Watched his hands. Watched when Eleanore came by to see if he needed more wine and he leaned into her hip, looked up and inquired, "Why? Are you trying to tell me that I should have more wine?" ... And he wondered, for the slipped end of a moment, what Miroslav saw from that vantage point, temple to belly, ear to hip. The soft curve of a breast and the delicate hollow of the throat? She smiled down and patted the side of his head.

"Maybe not," she said, and took his glass from him. And then she was off to the kitchen, and Miroslav was left to slouch himself vertical again. He smiled at Serafeim from beneath scattered strands of hair, but there was no reaction and the smile eventually faded. The clock on the mantel continued to count the moments. Serafeim leaned forward just slightly, fingers tangled; moved again and glanced towards the kitchen. Strained across the space. Mute. Levity brushed to one side, Miroslav glanced and said, "What is it? What's wrong? Hey - hey, just - " and swung his legs around to sit. "What?"

Serafeim stared. Eyes flickered: once, twice, over and down again. He swayed with elbows on his knees, palms touching for reassurance. An eternity of seconds went by. He watched the slight tic in the temple of the only man he had ever known. "What?" said Miroslav, and without thinking, without quite forming the words, Serafeim asked how it felt. Miroslav stayed still for a moment, brow knit in concern. The darkness was not quite dispelled a moment later, when he wavered backward. Half a flinch, the eyes remained fixed, and "Warm," said he. His hand went to his mouth mid-shrug, and completed the motion. The bottom of his voice fell out of the phrase, "People feel warm when you touch them."