A Veil of Glass and Rain (6 page)

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

consent, 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