A Veil of Glass and Rain

by Petra F. Bagnardi

  I took some deep breaths and tried to brace myself for the imminent separation. Then I saw the plain tickets; they rested on the table, one was for him, the other one was for me.

  Tears gathered in my eyes and then fell along my cheeks; I just couldn't hold them, so much was the relief. He came to me and cradled me in his arms.

  “I love you,” I sobbed.

  “I love you too, kitty-cat.”

  5.

  My heart stutters when I see his name on the display of my cellphone.

  “May I speak to Miss Brina Féau, please?”

  I try not to laugh. “It's me, Eagan. You called my cellphone.”

  “Are you otherwise engaged, or are you free to talk?”

  “I am free, but not for long. I need my beauty sleep.”

  “I won't keep you for longer than it's necessary.”

  “Eagan, seriously?”

  “You started.”

  “Well, no. You called.”

  “You're the one with the previous engagements,'” he says, imitating my tone

  “I see, that's what this is all about. Well, sorry. I really had something to do.” A lie, once again.

  “You formally ran away.”

  “I did not!”

  “You so did!” He is right.

  “Eagan, it's not like I left you alone in the middle of big, old Rome. You were with your friends.”

  “You didn't like them.”

  “They were very polite.”

  “But?”

  “Nothing. How was the happy hour?”

  “Happy.”

  I try very hard not to think about him with the attractive brunette. “And the rest of the night?”

  “I went home. I was beat. Your city is very tiring.”

  “Said the New Yorker, who went to university in London.”

  “Rome is crazy. It's--”

  “Too much, I know.”

  “Yeah, but I found a nice, secluded park today. A place to escape the chaos. It's not far from the Colosseum. It's surrounded by walls. You enter through an iron gate. Once I stepped inside, it was like being in another world.”

  His tone has changed, his voice has become deeper and bit rougher.

  I am reclining on my narrow bed, and I can easily imagine Eagan stretched out on his, which is probably a big four-poster, with soft sheets and covers that smell like cinnamon and male skin. In my imagination he is surrounded by darkness and the faint streetlights that come from his window. Shadow and light caress and define his firm body, just like I've seen water do so many times. In my imagination he's also naked.

  “This park was all soft hills and high pine trees,” Eagan's voice continues. I walked for a while. I let my skin absorb the warm sun. I filled my lungs with clean air.”

  I extend my limbs and arch my spine, just like a cat. I'm wearing panties and a thin top. Eagan's soothing voice is like a caress along my body.

  “Then I saw something that made me think of you, Brina.”

  For a moment I freeze, waiting. My fingers tighten around my phone; I don't know what I'm expecting, but it seems crucial.

  “It was a flower, an hibiscus. Its petals were a deep pink, and wide open to the light. They seemed very delicate. I was almost afraid to touch them, but I couldn't help myself. I allowed only my fingertips to brush the petals, at first. Then I took one petal between my forefinger and thumb and I stroked it lightly, then more insistently.”

  My nipples are hard and pressing against my top. My legs have parted of their own accord, and the hand that is not clutching the phone is cupping my wet and throbbing sex. He is killing me with his voice and his tale.

  “I found out the petals were warm from the sun, and a bit moist from some lingering humidity. They were also more resilient than they appeared. Just like you, Brina.”

  I whimper and Eagan exhales deeply.

  For an infinite moment we remain quiet. Only our breathing punctuates the silence. I'm tempted to grind my mound against my hand, to find some sort of relief, but Eagan's voice still my movements.

  “You're still there?” He murmurs his question.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Good. There is a party next Saturday. Nothing fancy. Just some friends and colleagues, It's not private, it's a club, so you can bring your friends.”

  I let out a frustrated whimper, then I force my hand away from my pulsing groin.

  “Say yes, Brina,” Eagan demands.

  “Yes.” My voice sounds a bit firmer this time.

  “I sent you a special email.” His tone has changed. He sounds more playful; I picture the familiar smile stretching his full lips.

  “Goodnight, Brina.”

  “Goodnight, Eagan.”

  The email Eagan sent me contains an attachment. It's a picture of a flower with deep pink petals. There is also a message.

  “Delicate and resilient. Like you.”

  It is a sweet and friendly gesture. Of course, Eagan doesn't know, and never will, the effect his words and actions have on me. By the time I shut down my lap-top and curl up under my blanket, my nipples are still pebbled and my core is still thrumming. But there is also a heavy melancholy that envelopes me. The strong girl that Eagan remembers, disappeared a long time ago. The grown-up version of the girl he used to know is neither soft nor strong; she's lost and very confused.

  6.

  The smell of classrooms, of nervous sweating, and the smog of Rome cling stubbornly to my clothes and my skin. As soon as I get home, I immerse myself into a scalding shower, ignoring the mess that invades the house. Clémentine's been busy with exams and rehearsals with her theater group. I have been simply distracted and preoccupied; our apartment is paying the price of neglect.

  I want to drown the day in steamy water and lemon scented body-wash. Once I considered getting cinnamon scented soap, but I soon dropped the idea, because it felt too masochistic.

  I turn on the stereo and let the sultry blues tunes invade the house.

  The water rains on me, almost bruising my skin; the scent of lemon erases the day from my body, but not from my mind.

  After Eagan's phone-call I wasn't able to fall asleep, so when I met my professor at university this morning, I felt edgy and behaved distractedly.

  Miss Tessitori, my History of European Cinema professor, is becoming impatient, and I don't blame her; in order to gain credits for her course, I have to write a final paper, however, I'm unable to select a topic.

  The twins, Ivan and Alessio, were with me today, but they already chose their subject.

  I envy them. They always seem to know where their life is heading and what they want to achieve.

  Professor Tessitori, before we left, gave us an application form. It's for a scholarship; in case we win, it will allow us to spend two months in a capital of Europe, to study, research and prepare our final paper. All we have to do is submit an interesting idea.

  The twins are planning to write something about cinema and music. They'll even compose an original piece for the occasion.

  “Why are you giving this to me? I have no idea what to write,” I told my professor.

  “Exactly. Perhaps all you need is an incentive,” she explained.

  “You can work with us,” Alessio interjected. “We don't mind.”

  We were standing in the hallway, just outside our professor's office. Miss Tessitori was leaning against the open door of the office, arms crossed, expression stern. “I forbid it. She needs to do this on her own. Quit coddling her.” With that, she dismissed us.

  I normally appreciate the twins' protectiveness, but in that moment I tried to consider us through our professor's eyes. Ivan had his arm around my shoulder and Alessio was holding my hand. The image I gave to Miss Tessitori, an authority figure, was of fragility, and I felt ashamed.

  The water is getting cold. I turn it off, but I remain in the shower stall. The scent of lemon still lingers in the enclosed space. My body is finally relaxing and my mind, without my con
sent, is conjuring up images of gardens and deep-pink flowers.

  Eagan's fingers stroke soft petals.

  He sighs in the sunlight and his naked body turns toward mine. I breathe in the smell of cinnamon and the scent of him; his warmth is a welcome contrast with the cool grass underneath my back.

  Eagan traces his fingertips across my belly. I quiver. Then he smooths his right hand down my navel until he reaches my intimate dark curls. I whimper.

  He cups my sex in his palm for a moment, before pushing one of his fingers inside me, while his thumb circles my clitoris, gently and slowly. I moan.

  His left hand caresses my breast; his thumb brushes over my stiff nipple. I cry out.

  My orgasm reverberates off the shower walls. One of my hands rest between my legs, while the other one is braced against the humid tiles. My breathing gradually slows down and I begin to feel cold. As soon as the last waves of pleasure subside, I realize that I am in trouble. Eagan wants to save our friendship, but my heart and my body clearly crave much more.

  I punt on jeans and a black t-shirt. I ignore the mirror, as I know what my reflection will show; a skinny young woman with big and worried dark eyes and long, straight black hair.

  Barefooted, I pad into the kitchen. I drink five glasses of water, then I notice the plate full of cupcakes on the counter. I also see the note: Eat me.

  I ignore the suggestion.

  I open the fridge, knowing already what I'm about to find; a bowl of pasta salad with mozzarella, cherry tomatoes and basil. A pretty white, red and green still life that Clém has prepared to stir my appetite.

  Clémentine is Canadian.

  We became friends, then roommates, during our first year of university. We were both hunting for apartments, and we decided to search together.

  Just like me, and the twins, she chose Rome because of the Italian cinema, and the overwhelming culture and history of this country.

  When she began to experiment with the Italian cuisine, I supposed it was a cultural interest. I was wrong. It was because of me. She noticed my bad relationship with food and she tried to mend it.

  She failed.

  She's still failing. It's not her fault.

  There's a huge and dark hole inside me, that grips and twists my insides. It is a cold entity that I'm unable to chase away. It's a presence that runs under my skin and makes me feel constantly cold.

  No matter how many hot showers I take, I always sense the frost adhering to my body and my heart.

  7.

  “So, we're about to meet a bunch of kick-ass lawyers?” Asks Marco.

  “They're kick-ass architects,” I clarify.

  We've finally managed to find a parking spot, after a long search.

  We make our way down narrow and isolated lanes, and then down wider and more populated streets. Both the sidewalks and the roads, paved with small, square stones called San Pietrini, are uneven and arduous to tread; that is why I often wear combat-boots, like tonight, or sneakers.

  “Are they all Americans?” Marco demands.

  “No, they're a mixed group,” I answer, glancing at our small and varied party.

  “Sounds familiar.” He links his right arm around Clém's shoulders and his left arm around Virginie's waist, as we keep walking and stumbling.

  Marco is the only genuine Italian in our circle of friends. Tall, lanky, with brown hair and dark eyes, he's Clém's boyfriend and the singer in our punk-rock band.

  Ivan is the bassist and Alessio the drummer, but they both play the piano and the guitar as well, like me; unlike me, they didn't quit music school.

  Virginie is Canadian, like Clém. They came to Italy together. Virginie, however, doesn't share our apartment.

  ”I'm a spoiled bitch, who can afford a studio thanks to my rich parents.” Her own words.

  Both tall, blond and curvy, my Canadian friends are wearing tight dresses and very high heels. Brave girls.

  The club where Eagan's office party takes place, is called Il Buco, the hole, because of its little entrance. Inside, though, it's quiet spacious. Tonight it is packed, but we manage to slip in without waiting for too long, because the bouncer remembers our band. He asks us about the very talented twins, and we explain that they're working tonight. A part of me is glad they're not with us, for I'm planning to use them as my excuse to escape.

  We played in this club a couple of times. We have a fond memory of the place; after the gigs they actually payed us, instead of just offering the band drinks and snacks, like other clubs and bars usually do.

  The sound of an indie-rock American band welcomes us. The DJ, who now occupies the same stage where we played, is all sweaty and jerky movements. He looks young, and this is probably one of his first jobs.

  The small, rounded tables are all taken. The dance floor is crowded.

  I follow my friends to the bar. Marco orders for Clém, Virginie and himself pint-size glasses of beer, and for me a soda.

  “Where is your friend?” Clém asks, her mouth close to my ear.

  Between sips of my sweet drink I look around; my gaze sweeps over the dancing and chattering people, I'm in no hurry to glimpse him, as I fear what I may find. My heart stutters when I finally catch sight of him. He's wearing black jeans and a dark red button-down shirt. The dim colors make is bright blue eyes stand out. He appears older and charming..

  He's with Enrico and the two women I met at the museum. They're sitting around a small table; hands nursing drinks, mouths laughing, knees grazing.

  I indicate him to Clém with the neck of my soda bottle. “That's him.”

  “You want to go say hi?” She demands in my ear.

  I shake my head. “Let's dance.”

  Clém motions for Marco and Virginie to follow us on the dance floor. They both nod and abandon their half-finished drinks on the bar. Marco grabs Virginie's hand. Clém wraps her arm protectively around my shoulders and guide me through the hopping and writhing crowd.

  During our first months in Rome, when everything was still new, including our friendship, we used to go dancing more often. At first it was just me, Clém and Virginie. The days were spent attending classes and film projections, or visiting art exhibits organized by other students. At night we went to parties and clubs with cheap entrance fees. It was amusing for a while, but then we felt the need to embrace new experiences.

  Clém and Virginie began to take Italian language classes; Clém founded her indie theater group; Virginie started to hang out with various Italian guys.

  “It's very good for the language,” she explained.

  I met Alessio and Ivan, who already knew Marco, and we created our punk-rock band. Our small group became larger.

  The university we all attend has special scholarships and programs for students from all over the world. The professors speak both Italian and English, though classes are mainly taught in Italian.

  In our heterogeneous circle of friends we communicate mainly in English. For Clém, Virginie, Ivan and Alessio it is easier. Marco loves it, because it's the language of his favorite music.

  For me, English is a link to Eagan.

  I dance with my friends until the crowd pressing around us becomes unbearable. With the excuse of needing some water, I drift away. I know I should find Eagan, it would be rude not to. Once again though, as my eyes find him among the other people, my heart lurches. Along with his friends, he's moved to the dance space. Eagan is not really dancing, more like swaying. The woman with dark hair has her hands on his shoulders. I recall her name now: Sara.

  She's wearing a light-blue, strapless tight dress, that showcases her curvy body. The color perfectly matches Eagan's eyes. They seem perfect together.

  I consider my outfit; a black mini-skirt, with black stockings, a white blouse and a black corset, which gives the illusion that my breasts are fuller. No make up, except for deep-purple lipstick. It is what I used to wear for our gigs. Ivan calls it “punk-rock-elegant” style. Tonight, a small velvet shoulder purse comp
letes the outfit.

  When Marco saw me earlier, he whistled his appreciation. “Welcome back, rock star!”

  Now I feel inadequate.

  A hand on my shoulder catches my attention. I turn and find Clém beside me. She glances at Eagan and his partner, then stares at me.

  “Go,” she mouths.

  I nod, and look behind her for Marco and Virginie. They are dancing and kissing. It's a brief, soft, innocent brush of lips, nevertheless it makes me uncomfortable.

  Clém, whose attention is still on me, mistakes my expression for something else, for she bends a little to utter in my ear, “It's all right. We'll catch a cab. Go. You don't have to see this.”

  Rome is chaotic, but it can also be soothing.

  As I cross the stone bridge that leads to where we parked the car, I feel my heart pulsing in my ears. The smells of the club, alcohol, sweat, perfumes, still linger on my clothes and on my skin.

  I pause.

  The stone beneath my feet still holds the day warmth. It bleeds into my skin. I realize it's a temporary relief, but I appreciate it nonetheless.

  Cars are not allowed on this particular bridge, because it's ancient. People stroll by on either side of me. They talk, they laugh, they murmur.