Adam's Peak by Heather Burt

“God, I hope I’m not boring you. I was wanting to get to know
you
better, and here I am doing all the talking.”

    Clare shook her head. If she’d been the type of person to say such a thing, she would have told her neighbour that he was perhaps the most interesting person she’d ever spoken with.
    â€œNo, no. It’s fine. I mean, it’s really interesting. So, what do you think was the real reason your father wanted to leave?”
    â€œWell ...” Adam jutted his jaw back and forth a few times. “I think it was something about Sri Lanka. You know, something older than the war, or more specific or something.” He nodded to himself. “Take his choice to come to Montreal—instead of Toronto, I mean. My dad knew lots of people in Toronto who would’ve helped him get settled, but he refused to go there. My aunt says he would-n’t hear of it. Instead he comes here, where you’re about as likely to find a Sri Lankan as—Well, how many Sri Lankans do you see around here?”
    â€œUh ...”
    â€œExactly. And when he filled out the immigration papers? He changed the spelling of our name. It used to be two words: Van—Twest. Now it’s just one.” Adam bent down and picked up his helmet. “I know those are just details, but I think they mean something.”
    Taking the helmet to be a cue, Clare opened the dairy case and reached for a carton of eggs. But Adam kept talking.
    â€œMy father grew up on a tea estate.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYeah. His father was the head honcho. I think they were quite well off, by Ceylon standards. Anyway, his sister—my aunt—always tells these fantastic stories, about the fancy parties they went to, the workings of the factory, the servants. It’s great. But if I ask my dad about those days, he just gets edgy and strange.” Adam reached out and took the eggs from Clare. “My guess is he was getting as far away as he could from that whole scene. Not that the political stuff was irrelevant. He really worries about my brother and my aunt. He worries about all of us.” He shrugged and smiled. “It’s kinda stuffy in here. Should we get going?”
    Digesting this sudden glut of information, Clare followed Adam to the checkout, where he placed the eggs on the counter then took out his wallet.

    â€œEt les deux réglisses aussi,” he said to the grocer, in perfectly adequate French.
    With a start, she realized he was about to pay for her eggs.
    â€œOh, no. Wait.” She fished for her money.
    Adam, however, shook his head. “No, let me. Next time Dad and I run out of eggs, I’ll come over and get some from you. We can be real neighbours.” He slid a twenty-dollar bill across the counter, and the wrinkled grocer stabbed a button on his cash register. Clare stared at the “Oui” sticker on the side of the register then glanced back at Adam, putting away his change, and smiled awkwardly.
    Outside, the temperature had continued to rise, and the air smelled of springtime mud and thawing dog shit. As Adam helped her with her chinstrap, Clare studied the dark whiskers peeking out from his light brown cheeks and the flat, dark mole at the base of his throat.
    â€œI’m thinking of moving to Vancouver,” she blurted, pleased with the remark and the unexpected surge of confidence that prompted it.
    Adam’s eyes widened. “Wow! Big change!”
    â€œYeah. But I think I need it. It’ll be good for me.”
    She readied herself to explain, somehow,
why
such a change would be good for her. Adam seemed, for a few seconds, to be considering what she’d said. Then he nodded.
    â€œYeah, I know what you mean. When I was in Vancouver for the Gay Games, I started thinking I could really make a life for myself out there. It’s such a different scene.” He put on his own helmet. “But I don’t know. There’s a lot