A Veil of Glass and Rain
Page 16
After we boarded the plane and took our seats, I fell asleep in Eagan's arms.
Now the rumbling of the airplane engines, along with the voices of the other passengers, and Eagan's chortling awaken me.
As soon as my eyes blink open, I notice the drool stain that decorates Eagan's T-shirt. My friend and lover is considering it with pride and mischievousness in his bright blue eyes.
“It's shaped like a pyramid. It's almost perfect,” he observes.
I examine my work of drool for a long moment, then I grin. “Yeah. I'm an artist.”
Eagan's laughter explodes and calls the attention of the other passengers, but I don't mind, for it's a sound that involves his whole being, it originates from deep down his heart; it's wonderful.
Even if his body is still shaking, I link my arms around his neck.. Without any hesitation, he cradles me into his embrace. His strength and his heat bleed into my skin. A cry of pleasure resounds throughout my body.
His warmth and his vitality belong to me. I claim them. They're mine.
Eagan.
3 years later.
She stares at the house, and the most stunning of smiles curls her purple-painted lips.
“Is it ours?” She breathes.
“Yes,” I answer.
Our new home is a two-story house with yellow brick walls and a dark-purple roof. It's encircled by a flourishing emerald-green garden, filled with bushes of hibiscus flowers.
I designed it and Neal helped me find the right people to build it. I tried to refuse his offer, because I wanted to do everything on my own, but Neal insisted.
“You and Brina are my family. I want to help you. Let me. Please,” he said.
I accepted.
Now I'm glad I did. The rapt expression on Brina's face has no price.
She walks through the garden and brushes the petals of the flowers with her eyes and with her fingertips. A whiff of summer wind ruffles her long, inky tresses and the skirt of her yellow sundress. She glances upward and marvels at the numerous windows peppering the façade.
“So many windows,” she comments.
A satisfied grin stretches my lips. “We have a big family. The twins, Clém and Enrico, Neal and Felia. We need rooms for when they come visit.”
Brina nods. Then she rushes toward me, loops her arms around my waist and buries her face in my chest.
“Thank you,” she murmurs against my T-shirt.
I slide my fingers through her dark strands, then I stroke my hand along her spine. Brina moans softly.
I chuckle and kiss the top of her head. “Let's go inside.”
The interior is still unfurnished, except for a big couch covered with warm blankets. We're spending the night here.
The sofa faces a floor-to-ceiling arched window, that opens to the orchard. Neal and I planted flowers along with lemon trees.
As the falling sun caresses our garden, our home and the skin of my best friend and lover, I realize that, finally, I'm clutching everything I've ever desired. But I know that I can't keep it all to myself. The world needs to hear and appreciate Brina's words and music. So there will be moments of brief, but unavoidable separations.
During those moments, Brina's bitter-sweet lemony scent will linger in our garden, it will seep through the walls and windows, and it will invade our home. I'm sure I'll miss her. I'm sure it will be painful. But I know that she will always rush back to my embrace.
5 years later.
Warm water falls on our naked bodies. The shower stall is our blue, steamy cocoon.
I brush a kiss across Brina's lips and I drink water from her open mouth.
Even as I slowly kneel, I grasp her waist and lick my way down her shapely figure. Her skin hums underneath my fingertips.
When my knees connect with the tile floor, I slide my hands along her flanks and over her rounded abdomen. Then I kiss our future.
“I love you. I love both of you.” My voice is a husky murmur. Too many feelings crowd my lungs, my chest, my throat.
I glance up at Brina. She's smiling down at me through a shield of water and tears.
She frames my face in her palms. “We love you too, so much,” she replies brokenly.
My heart swells with joy. Brina and our baby. They are my family. My love. My breath.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Petra F. Bagnardi is a television screenwriter and story-editor, and an indie-theater writer, director and actress.
She's an avid reader and an enthusiastic cinéphile.
Find her here:
www.facebook.com/petra.bagnardi
And contact her here:
pfbagnardi@gmail.com