#ex parte

Why wasn’t it ever enough to feel? I don’t know, mate. Feels like you don’t know much about him. Henny, no offense, but I found out you wanted to kill yourself before I knew your government name. What is knowing someone? Is it knowing how they take their coffee, what makes them laugh? Knowing their friends, their blood, where they come from? Or is it knowing the images that keep them up at night? A few weeks ago, Ronan took Adam to the museum. Adam stopped in front of a Morris Louis painting, his clear brows pulling into a frown. He took art so seriously. Ronan watched him more than the paintings; it was easy to tell by the look on someone’s face what kind of art they liked. Then one guy showed up next to Adam. The sound of his laugh was enough to make Ronan hate him. I could’ve made that, the guy said. Adam turned slowly to him, and said. And yet, you didn’t. Ronan grinned. He thought: I want to grow old with you. Doubt crawled in late at night. Kept Ronan awake in empty sheets. He made lists of everything he knew about Adam. Adam was born on the 3rd of July. He was thirty-three. He was a successful lawyer, and he wished he could take in more pro bono work. Adam spoke Latin, Ancient Greek and Spanish, he dabbled in Italian, and loved to pretend he could speak French. He had dreams so big he never put them fully into words, and he never realized how much desire came across his eyes. Harvard had been hard on him. He still carried weird quirks from those years, like brushing his teeth in the shower (it’s more efficient) or wolfing down handfuls of nuts instead of taking a real breakfast. Adam could go a long time without eating.  Adam had dated men and women. His longest relationship lasted six months. Adam loved Blue like a sister. He liked exercise when it was practical. Running, swimming. I don’t think human beings were meant to lift weights for the thrill of it. He loved the sea, which always made Ronan a little fond, because his eyes reminded him of it. Adam hated vacations in cold places and had contempt for people who skied. Adam was good with money. Adam used to hear from both ears. Adam played the guitar, and somehow, it was the only thing he was shy about. Adam liked fineness in art. He loved Epicurus. He knew how smart he was: he was so terrified of failing it made him good at everything. Ronan believed that Adam should’ve been a professor, but Adam thought he was too arrogant for it. Ronan knew his body in the dark. There was a scatter of moles on his back and a birthmark on the curve of his hip. Ronan knew the smell of his hair and his sweat, the texture of his skin, the feeling of his hands, the weight of his ribs between his thighs. Adam liked control more so than he liked pain. The best way to turn him on was to talk back at him and Ronan could make him come under two minutes. He even knew the feeling of his anxiety: in his neck, right between his shoulderblades, in his lower back. Adam snored sometimes, but only when he slept really well, so Ronan didn’t mind. The first time Ronan heard Adam laugh, really laugh, he thought about God, and felt so guilty he wanted to pound the shame off his limbs. Adam didn’t like it when Ronan slammed things. He flinched when the door closed with a bang. He didn’t like to be held down. He couldn’t sleep against a wall. He didn’t like mean drunks. He hated guns. He had several scars on his body and no stories coming with them. It wasn’t that hard to fill in the blanks. Ronan gave the list to Hennessy. I probably forgot some shit. She took it with a frown. She read every item. Then she waved it around and slammed it against Ronan’s chest. Babes, who gives a shit? When’s the last time you saw me in a healthy relationship? Be in love, mate.