A Veil of Glass and Rain

A Veil Of

Glass and Rain

Petra F. Bagnardi

A Veil of Glass and Rain by Petra F. Bagnardi

Copyright 2013 Petra F. Bagnardi

Smashwords Edition

unconditionally.

And to Rome, home.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Cover Picture for the ebook edition:©Ryan

Jorgensen(jorgophotography)
/Stockfresh

http://stockfresh.com/gallery/jorgophotograp

hy

A

big

thank

you

to

divainpyjamas.blogspot.com
for the support and the encouragements. You really warmed

my heart.

I would like to thank Aurelia Lemoine for

her useful notes and comments, and for loving

Brina and Eagan from the very beginning. A

huge “thank you” to Francesca Chericoni for

her artistic contribution. And then a big “thank

you” to the talented Nina Monti, to Barbara,

Lubna, Emanuela, Gaia, Alice, Maria, and

Michela. You're all amazing and supportive

friends. I'll never forget.

veil of glass and water. I was nine, and he was

fourteen.

We were at my parent's place. It was

raining, and I was playing outside by myself. I

was wearing a yellow raincoat and yellow

boots. Eagan, his parents and mine were in the

kitchen, talking, laughing, probably making

tea. I could see them through the kitchen

window.

Our garden was dotted with small and big

puddles. I jumped around them, pretending

they were black holes that could capture me,

if only I grazed their surface with the tips of

my feet.

When I paused and looked up, I noticed that

Eagan was observing me through the window.

He smiled an easy smile and waved. I waved

back and resumed my playing.

After a few moments he joined me outside.

He was carrying a deep-purple umbrella. I

stared at him from the edge of a huge puddle.

He stood on the opposite side and for a few

seconds we considered each other. I noticed

that his feet were too close to the water, and I

wanted to warn him about the danger of black

holes, but I felt shy. He was tall, like a giant.

His smile was gentle , and he smelled good.

“You smell like cookies,” I told him.

He chuckled, and the sound made me feel

warm. “My mum has a thing for cinnamon. She

puts it everywhere. She even found a

cinnamon scented fabric softener. And

cinnamon scented soap,” he explained.

“You shouldn't stand so close to the water,

it's dangerous.” I finally informed him.

He contemplated the murky puddle that

separated us with a serious expression, then he

looked up at me. “I read somewhere that if

you jump into a puddle, the currents will carry

you away to another world.”

Suddenly the dark water became less

frightening and more interesting. “If I jump in

and get lost in the other world, will you run

after me to bring me back?” I asked him.

He smiled. “Of course.”

1.

I know it's cruel, but I don't remember his

name.

We met at a party. I picked him because he

has Eagan's colors; dark-blond hair, and blue

eyes. But everything else looks wrong. He's tall

and lanky, and from the way he walks and

moves, it's obvious that he's uncomfortable in

his own skin. He's younger than Eagan.

We drank, we talked, he invited me to his

place, and I accepted.

It's awful, but I still don't recall his name.

We are in his bedroom. The lights are on

and we are still dressed. I think he smells like

beer and sweat.

He presses me up against the wall. I can't

make myself touch him, so I flatten my palms

against the brick behind me, and I trace the

bumps and cracks with my fingertips.

He buries his face in the hollow of my neck.

His kisses are warm and wet. I close my eyes.

I can't remember his name and I can't feel

anything.

He presses his erection against my belly and

he begins to grind; the cold zipper of his jeans

scrapes the exposed skin of my belly; this I can

feel.

He breathes and moans into my skin. I open

my eyes and start counting the stains on the

carpet beneath our feet.

He slides one of his hands under my black t-

shirt. I'm not wearing a bra, because I don't

really need it. When his fingers brush the

underside on my bare breast, he moans.

He bucks against me harder and faster. The

wall scratches my back a little; this too I can

feel.

He cups my breast in his palm and then he

squeezes it. When I whimper, he thinks I'm

enjoying what he's doing, so he crushes my

breast again. I moan in distress and he groans

in pleasure. Eventually, his erection jerks, and

his lean frame shakes as he comes.

“Sorry,” he pants into my neck.

“It's fine,” I tell him.

He keeps me pressed up against the wall.

“It's just that you're so hot. I saw you on

stage, a couple of months ago. With your

guitar, and your tight skirt, and I—Well, I'm

glad I met you tonight, at the party.” His voice

his rough, and still tinged with arousal. He

kisses my shoulder.

I place my palms on his chest, raise on my

tiptoes to kiss his cheek, then I push him away

from me.

“Stage lights are deceiving,” I tell him.

“They make you seem taller, hotter, better.

But it's just an illusion.”

While he's in the bathroom, I leave his room

and then his house.

Three days ago it was my birthday, February

the 1st.

Eagan called me.

“Happy Birthday, Brina!”

“Thanks,” I murmured.

“I found a job in Rome. Next month we'll be

in the same city. Finally!”

His deep voice resounded throughout my

entire being. It awakened feelings and

sensations left dormant for a very long time. I

tried to detect signs of disappointment and

anger in his tone, but all I could perceive was

sincere joy.

“Really?” I clutched my cellphone so hard,

that I felt the plastic cracking.

“Yeah. I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

“I read there's an Exhibit of this very

popular, and quiet unusual, Italian artist. I'm

curious. Let's go together when I'm there.”

I hesitated then. And suddenly the silence

was filled with all the years spent apart, and

all the words left unsaid.

“Say yes, Brina.” He uttered in a husky

tone; it was both a request and a plea.

“Yes.” I breathed.

I'm twenty years old.

In a few weeks Eagan will be here.

During the last four years we've been barely

in touch. I have tried very hard not to think

about him. I've buried his memory under the

kisses, the touches, and the voices of other

guys. But now all I can feel, sense, perceive is

him and the scent of cinnamon.

2.

Autumn and Winter were my lonely seasons.

My parents were constantly abroad working,

and Eagan was in New York, living his life

there. We exchanged emails and talked over

the computer almost every day, but it wasn't

enough.

I wasn't really alone at home, in Italy,

because we had a housekeeper named Lea,

who was kind and protective, but she wasn't

my family, and she wasn't Eagan.

Eagan and I bonded in the first place

because, despite the age difference, diverse

nationality, and opposite gender, we were

reflections of each other lives.

Our parents are photographers. My parents,

just like Eagan's, can't bare to stay apart. They

are each other air. And they're all very

dedicated to their work.

My parents love me, and Eagan's parents

love him; but it's not enough.

Spring and Summer were my happy seasons,

because I could spend time with my family and

with Eagan. Everything seemed better when I

was with them; food that normally tasted like

ash, was suddenly appealing.

During the summer we spent on the
Ile

d'Ouessant
, which I renamed the Lighthouse

Island, everything began to change between

Eagan and me. And it was mostly my fault.

We had our first big argument. For three

days I tried to avoid Eagan. He let me, because

the island was very small and it wasn't really

difficult to locate me; most likely he knew

that one word from him would have made my

resolve to stay mad at him crumble. He

wanted to let me be upset and be by myself to

think, but not for too long. He found me on the

third day.

Early morning, I went for a walk to our

favorite beach; in truth I wanted him to come

to me. The sun was still casting a cold light on

the shore, the sand was cool under my feet. At

first, with just shorts and a t-shirt on, the

ocean wind chilled my skin, but after a long

walk I discarded them and stood on the water

edge in my purple two-piece swimming suit. At

thirteen I was skinny, and my breast were

barely showing, despite that my friend Mina

had convinced me to wear a bikini

I let the icy water caress my toes. I stared

at the imposing lighthouse standing on the

highest point of the island, dressed in its black

and white striped suit, protecting us from its

vantage point like a tall and benevolent

monarch. I wished it could talk and dispense

wise advices.

My best friend in the world was a cheater. I

loved Eagan, and I did not understand how he

could hurt a girl as kind as Ines.

Ines was Portuguese. She was petite and had

dark hair and dark eyes, just like me. Unlike

me, she was curvy and she had enjoyed food.

For me eating was something I had to do in

order to survive. For Ines food was pleasure.

We got along not only because she was

Eagan's girlfriend, but also because she was

really my friend. Despite the age difference,

she treated me as an equal; exactly as Eagan

did. And she loved cartoons.

We delighted in playing entire conversations

using the squeaky and high-pitched inflections

of the cartoon characters. We drove Eagan

completely insane.

“If you don't stop talking like that, I swear,

I'm going to strangle you. Both of you,” he

bellowed.

On a cloudy Sunday, Ines took me to an

amusement park. We talked, we giggled, we

ate pink cotton candy and we rode the merry-

go-round. When she rose her gaze toward the

roller-coaster, however, I shook my head

sharply.

“Why not?” Ines asked.

“It doesn't look safe,” I replied.

“Come on, Brina. Where else can you raise

your hands up and yell, hands up?” She

insisted.

“Everywhere,” I told her.

It became our favorite joke of the summer.

Once we were at the supermarket, the only

one on the island, therefore it was always

crowded. Ines was about to hand to the cashier

money for her purchases, her hands were full

of coins.

I yelled, “Hands up, Ines!”

Suddenly, it was raining euros.

Ines retaliated, of course.

Eagan's parents were friends with other

American families that chose to spend their

vacations on the Lighthouse Island. Twice a

week we all gathered together at a restaurant,

reserved especially for us, to have pizza

parties. Not everyone was Italian, or of Italian

origins, but everyone loved pizza, and the cook

was from Naples.

Italians rarely eat pizza using knives and

forks; I am half Italian but my mother, who's

full-blooded, taught me to eat pizza using my

hands.

Ines waited for the moment when the slice

of pizza, overloaded with tomatoes and

vegetables, was almost touching my lips.

The she yelled, “Hands up, Brina!”

Suddenly it was raining mozzarella,

tomatoes and vegetables.

I remember that Eagan and his friends

hollered; I remember that my friend Mina, her

curly red hair full of toppings, laughed until