A Veil of Glass and Rain

by Petra F. Bagnardi

  “Are you scared?” He asks me.

  “Yes. But I must be brave. They can't stay away from each other. When they're apart, they're sad.”

  “What about you? Are you sad?”

  I stare at my reflection in the water. It dims and fades into the depths of the pond.

  Soon after the contours of my image materialize; but I'm not eleven, I'm twenty. I'm naked. My long hair is my only shield.

  I glance up at Eagan. He's naked as well. He's not holding the purple umbrella any longer.

  The rain has stopped.

  “You're not alone. I'm here. You have me,” he says.

  The pond is now a tiny drop.

  I take a step toward Eagan. He cradles me in his arms.

  “I love you, Brina.”

  “I love you, Eagan.”

  I am safe.

  14.

  He awakens me with pleasure.

  His fingers brush over my stiff nipples, then he pinches them between thumb and forefinger. My entire body arches with delight. My behind pushes back against his erection, coaxing a deep groan out of him.

  While his hands cup my breasts, he nibbles at the back of my neck, painting goose pimples all over my skin. I'm his white canvas.

  I reach behind me and between our bodies to palm his shaft.

  “Kitty-cat!” He warns.

  “It is tomorrow, Eagan. That means you're mine,” I declare.

  His penis jerks against my hand and my insides clench in response.

  I whimper his name, and he moans mine; it is all the encouragement I need. I stroke him trough his pants and he thrusts hungrily against my palm.

  I turn my face toward his, then I let my lips part, so that I can swallow his sounds of bliss. We share needy kisses until our breathing becomes normal.

  Then I shift and bury my face against his chest; his heart is still beating wildly.

  Eagan's arms clutch me in a fierce embrace.

  “I'm going to miss you today,” I whisper.

  “I'll miss you too,” he says. “I'm taking a week off. Can you do the same?” He adds, as he strokes my rumpled hair.

  I think about my two very relaxed bosses and I grin. “Absolutely.”

  “Good.”

  His caresses are as sweet as a lullaby, but there is something else I need to tell him, before I fall back to sleep.

  “The other guys I've slept with could never make me come,” I blurt out.

  He remains silent for a long while. I feel his muscles tense.

  “Eagan?”

  He exhales a deep sigh. “A part of me is very happy to hear that. The other part of me, though, wants to hunt those kids down and kick their asses.”

  I press a kiss to his heartbeat. “I didn't tell you this to upset you. I just want you to know that I belong to you. Completely. Heart and body.”

  I walk through my soon-to-be ex-apartment on silent feet.

  I check on Clém and Alessio; they're still sleeping, curled up on Clémentine's narrow bed.

  Then, in the small living room, I find Ivan asleep on the couch. He looks young and peaceful. I realize that I'm not angry at him any longer for, thanks to Eagan's loving, the flames of lust still simmer along my skin. I feel content.

  Besides, for Ivan and Alessio music means joy, therefore they don't understand why to me it is not the same.

  In their everyday life the twins are reserved but friendly. When they perform, particularly their own compositions, they are open to the world. They trust the audience. I don't.

  I've already played their songs, but we were in a soundproofed room; it was like being inside a protected cocoon.

  Tonight, it will be different. There will be nothing standing between my soul and the spectators. I will not be able to hide completely behind the safety of experience and technique, for the twins' compositions request more.

  Ivan's songs are classic rock pieces, imbued with passion and energy. Alessio's songs are sentimental rock ballads.

  Their compositions tell stories of love and longing. Ivan's songs are more ironic, whereas Alessio's are tinged with melancholy. In all of them the voice and the instruments argue and yell. The conflict is heated, but it is functional to the development of the story each song is telling. The musician must pour his soul into the narration, otherwise the audience will not believe.

  I'm not sure I can let go with such abandon. Even though Eagan is in my life again, my soul has been locked away for a very long time; it is a rigid and achy limb in need of movement and practice. Hopefully Eagan's presence, combined with the adrenaline, will help tonight.

  I believe it is what Eagan and the twins also expect, because they haven't planned for any rehearsal.

  I'll let adrenaline be my puppeteer then; I'll let it guide my fingers and pull at my vocal cords.

  Now I need to keep myself busy.

  I pack some clothes for the next few days. I will move the rest of my possessions later. Then I rummage through my bathroom cabinets to check on my make-up situation.

  I've inherited from my mother a flawless milky-white skin, that turns golden brown when touched by the summer sun. Unfortunately, it is also very delicate, therefore I'm forced to use special products, including particular brands of make-up, that happen to be quiet expensive. It is the reason why I normally put on only lip-stick.

  The bright stage lights, however, require a heavy made-up face.

  I still have foundation, some gray eye-shadow and black eyeliner. It is sufficient for tonight.

  Afterward, I take a meticulous shower and I groom my entire body.

  Then it is time to face my demons. One side of my wardrobe contains my neglected blue guitar and the peach-pink dress I wore for Eagan's presentation. I haven't washed it yet, so the skirt is still dotted with Eagan's blood. The image is creepy.

  Today I'll clean the dress. Tonight my blue guitar will sing again.

  Finally, I head for the bookstore. Today I work the lunch shift. Normally I loathe it, because the smell of sandwiches and pastries, that loiters throughout the early hours of the afternoon, makes me feel queasy. But perhaps today will be different.

  Eagan is dissolving the icy fingers underneath my skin; maybe he will also untwist the constant knots in my stomach.

  The club owned by Eagan's mysterious friend is called “Notti Rosse”: Red nights. It is located on the outskirts of Rome, close to the Mediterranean coast, where the thinning shore battles for its place in the world against the rising sea-level and the stubborn evergreen shrubs; the so-called macchia mediterranea.

  As soon as I step out of Ivan and Alessio's robust and spacious car, the sea air, a heavy cocktail of salt and pine trees, invades my lungs and chafes my skin.

  A few staff guys from the club join us to help unloading the instruments; Alessio's drums, Ivan's bass and my electric guitar. I jealously grip the handle of the case protecting my blue classical guitar.

  Finally, we all make our way inside the club.

  Dark walls, blue and red lights, a checkered black and red dance floor, a capacious and well stocked bar, my gaze sweeps over everything, but takes in nothing. My limbs are suddenly cold and afraid. Electronic music pounds blunt and blaring, causing the floor beneath my feet to vibrate.

  Clém leaves our little group to mingle with the writhing crowd on the dance floor; hips swaying, arms waving in the air.

  Clémentine is wearing faded jeans, a pink T-shirt and battered sneakers. Her blond hair is tousled, her green eyes are red and somber, but at least she's not hiding in her room any longer. I truly admire her inner strength.

  Someone grabs the handle of my guitar case, startling me. I glance up and meet Alessio's kind smile.

  “Let us take care everything. You just have fun, relax and make sure to be on the stage when it's time to begin.” He winks and then he moves away from me, to join Ivan and the staff people on the wide stage.

  The stage I didn't even notice.

  It says a lot about my state of mind.
>
  I'm in desperate need of a distraction, so I scan the crowd and I notice Eagan near the bar. I've missed him, even if it's been only a few hours since we last touched and kissed. His closeness is unleashing a desperate part of myself that worries me.

  He's with Enrico, Sara and the redhead I met at the museum. He's wearing a button-down black shirt, dark jeans and boots. He looks dangerous, delicious and completely at ease.

  I envy him and long for him all at once. I'm tempted to go to him, but a sudden fear grips my chest and my limbs. I'm unable to move. The smells in the club are a dense mixture of sweat and perfumes. My throat burns.

  I turn and trudge toward the entrance; perhaps the sea air will soothe my clogged lungs and my irrational fears.

  A warm and strong hand seizes mine. I find myself dragged away from the dancing people, the insistent music and the oppressive odors.

  We reach the quiet backstage.

  In one swift move, Eagan lifts me and drops me onto a small and dusty table, placed close to the wall. Acting on instinct, I link my arms around his shoulders and my legs around his waist. Eagan grinds his erection against my groin and we both cry out.

  Then his mouth fuses with mine. It's a frantic and hard kiss. My fears, my doubts break into him; his firmness, his heat, his scent.

  He wrenches his lips away from my mouth, so that he can nibble and lick at my neck. He slides his hand between our bodies and steals it under my black mini-skirt. Then his fingers slip inside my lacy underwear, stroking, probing.

  “You're wet,” he moans.

  “What are you going to do about it?” I breathe into his ear.

  Eagan's growl resounds throughout his hard body.

  He pushes one finger deep inside me, then another.

  “You're so tight. I can't wait to be inside you,” he rasps out.

  His warmth, his words, his forcefulness; they seep through my skin and warm the blood in my veins. I ride his thrusting fingers eagerly, until my inner muscles clench. I bury my sobs of bliss into the hollow of his neck.

  Eagan nuzzles my hair until I look up at him. When our gazes lock, he whispers kisses across my cheeks and my lips.

  “I love it when you come apart in my arms. I want to feel you again.” His voice is hoarse and filled with emotion.

  His fingers, still wedged inside me, begin to push in and out again.

  “Please,” I whimper against his mouth.

  “What do you need?”

  He strokes my swollen nub of flesh with the pad of his thumb.

  “You,” I wail.

  My head falls back against the wall behind me. My release washes over me in a wave of hot energy. This time I don't hide my cry of pleasure; I let it fade into the music that pounds all around us.

  I close my eyes as Eagan kisses my arched neck.

  “I can't feel my legs and arms anymore,” I tell him after a while.

  Eagan laughs and, very gently and carefully, disentangles our limbs and helps me slide off the table. As my uncertain feet touch the ground, he seizes my forearms and steadies my trembling body.

  I smile up at him. “I'm fine.”

  He grins and takes a few steps back. As we straighten our clothes, he stares at me. I'm wearing a white blouse, a silky black tie, a miniskirt, black stockings and combat-boots.

  “What?”

  “You look hot,” he comments.

  “And you're wearing purple lipstick.”

  I need water. A lot of water. Otherwise I will not be able to sing and play.

  Lips curled into a silly smile, I run to the bar and ask for a bottle of water.

  Then I hear them.

  They're all huddled together, drinking and talking aloud. They don't notice me.

  “Lei non va bene per lui. E' troppo fragile.”

  She's not good for him. She's too fragile. This is Sara. I recognize her sultry voice.

  “E' davvero troppo magra.”

  She's way too thin. This must be the redhead.

  “Non è solo questo. Non sa badare a sé stessa. Eagan ha lasciato di fretta l'ufficio per andarla a soccorrere un sacco di volte ultimamente.”

  It's not just that. She can't take care of herself. Eagan's been running out of the office to go help her a lot lately. Sara, again.

  “Ragazze! Davvero? Eagan fa solo la pausa pranzo. Voi fate pausa caffé ogni cinque minuti!”

  Girls! Really? Eagan takes only his lunch break. You take a coffee break every five minutes! That's Enrico. I do like him.

  “Non è questo il punto. Il problema è lei...”

  That's not the point. The problem is her...

  I don't want to listen to them any longer, so I turn and leave, clutching the bottle of water against my chest.

  Their words and opinions should not upset me, but they do.

  During the first set I feel detached. I let my strong technique guide the brushing of my fingers over the electric guitar chords.

  The audience doesn't notice, for we're playing Ivan's spirited rock compositions, and everyone seems enraptured by the force produced by our instruments.

  However, the twins perceive my inattention and, during the short break we take, they pretend an explanation.

  I give it to them.

  “They're jealous because you've caught the stud, and they haven't. I'm jealous too,” Ivan remarks.

  Alessio squeezes my shoulder. “Don't let them get to you. I need you here, mind, body and soul. You can do this.”

  “I can?” It's a mechanical question, for I still feel unemotional.

  “Yes,” Alessio answers.

  “Maybe,” Ivan says.

  Alessio glares at him.

  Ivan shrugs. “Just jesting.”

  Then he grasps my forearms and shakes me a little. “Get out there. Sing my brother's beautiful song. Make me proud.”

  Alessio's song is called, “Written Souls”. It's about a young man confessing his love to his best friend, before life separates them. During their last night together, they make love. The young man demands his lover not to rush their encounter, for he wants to commit to memory every gesture, every stroke, every sigh. And perhaps, one day, he'll show someone else how to love, how to kiss, how to touch.

  I sing the part of the lover posing the questions, while my blue classical guitar plays the answering lover. Behind me, Alessio's drums create a soft background for the story.

  I can't afford to be distant, because the two lovers demand a pulsing heart, otherwise their tale will not be believable. So I search the crowd and I find Eagan standing right in front of the stage. I gaze at him. I give him myself. I let him be the guardian of my soul.

  15.

  I utter soft sounds of contentment as the water falls all over my skin; a wet and warm caress that washes away the voices and the odors of the club.

  Eagan's arms circle my waist from behind. He presses his slick and taut body along mine, and he rubs his erection against my back.

  I let my head fall back against his chest, and I glance up at him through a veil of water and steam.

  “You want me,” I tell him.

  “Always.”

  Eagan's soapy hands knead my breasts, then he gently rolls my nipples between his fingertips.

  I whimper and move my hips restlessly, seeking his touch. The ache is unbearable.

  I cover his hands with mine. “I can't. I have nothing else to give.”

  “I know. You look exhausted. You were amazing tonight. I want to be your groupie for the rest of my life,” he murmurs.

  I laugh softly. “Good. I need you. You're the only one I trust with my soul.”

  Eagan cups my breasts in his palms, even as he bends down to brush a kiss across my forehead.

  “Tomorrow I'm taking you out on a date. Tomorrow night I'm yours, and you're mine,” he promises.

  My lips part and water pools inside my mouth. Eagan fits his lips to mine and drinks from me. I close my eyes, as our tongues tangle and taste.

  My tired b
ody sways, but I'm not worried, for if I fall, I know he will catch me.

  We spend the night wrapped around each other. When sleep separates our bodies, we wake up and reach for one another across the darkness.

  Tomorrow our limbs will be achy and stiffened.

  We don't mind.

  Rome is my home and I take it for granted. Everyday its beauty is a precious background for my life.

  Walking across the city with Eagan, witnessing the awe that each monument paints on his handsome face, makes me stare at my home with more attentive eyes.

  Our day begins at Piazza della Repubblica, then we walk down Via Nazionale, we take a little detour to see Piazza del Quirinale, and then back down Via XX Novembre, until we reach Piazza Venezia. Ancient and new buildings are bathed in blinding sunlight, but we don't wear shades, for their nuances must be savored with bare eyes.

  We take our lunch-break sitting on a stone bench that faces the Altare della Patria, a huge and imposing white monument, which we both consider quiet ugly, in agreement with the Romans; they call it “the typing machine”, because of its peculiar shape.

  We had a quick breakfast, and Eagan didn't notice my nonexistent appetite. At least I hope he didn't.

  While we consider the commanding monument with critical eyes, sitting on the bench and guarded by a few pine trees, Eagan seems thoughtful.

  After a while he unpacks the sandwiches we prepared together before leaving the house. Then he feeds me. I don't protest, for I enjoy licking his fingers and looking at his eyes, as they turn smoky and intense. I enjoy the rush of sensual heat gathering in my core. I enjoy how my taste buds suddenly come alive.