Adam has a bicycle. He has a studio off Main Street and a garden. Hardwood floors, exposed brick. Clean lines, plants. He doesn’t have a cell phone, he doesn’t have a television. He doesn’t use the internet. He wants to bite my bottom lip. He wants to make love to me and then kill himself, because that would be worth it, to him. He doesn’t like to see bands live, he doesn’t like to even see pictures of them. He says he hates a fair deal of life’s trivialities, but he doesn’t actually seem to hate too much.
He is 26 and says that he has never really admired breasts, that ex-girlfriends have all been flat chested. This somehow seems like a fragile lie wrapped in linen.
He drinks too much, vodka over ice with an herb from his garden floating around on the bottom that makes the otherwise boring taste like chocolate and mint. He leaves his lights off, save a bulb in the corner pointing downward. He is half Scottish, half American Indian. He is quiet. He likes the quiet, he likes being naked. He likes locking eyes, and laughing though he laughs more with his eyes than his throat. He never completed college. He doesn’t like cheerios, he vomited cheerios as a child. Adam says he doesn’t want to give his love to one person, and he wants to come down to New York and lie in bed holding me. Adam stays on Main Street and calls me in the city.
I don’t answer.