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 doesnt 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 it tastes 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 doesnt like cheerios, he vomited cheerios as a child. Adam says doesnt want to give his love to one person, and he wants to come down to the city and lie in bed holding me. Adam stays on Main Street and calls me.
I don't answer.
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