A Veil of Glass and Rain (3 page)

positions. Arthur found work in London and

Beth remained in Bath with their daughter.

I interrupted his tale then with a question.

“Were you unhappy to be apart?”

“Certainly,” he answered.

“How did you survive?” I demanded.

Peter wasn't surprised by my confusion,

because he knew how difficult it was for her

daughter to stay separate from her husband,

and how my own parents experienced the

same sort of distress.

“We wrote letters to one another,” he

explained.

Then he presented the letters to me. There

were so many, that he had to conserve them

inside a large box. He chose his favorite one

and let me read it. Only one word was written

on the wrinkled paper: You.

“With one word she told me that all she

could think about was me,” Peter said, and his

eyes shone with love and pride.

“Tell me the end of your story,” I urged, my

pulse pounding a wild tempo within my chest.

He gave me Eagan's easy smile. “The school

where Beth was working offered her a full-

time position, so I returned to Bath and I

resumed teaching part-time, while I took care

of our little girl.”

“Thank you, for sharing your story with

me,” I told him, and my voice broke a little,

for I realized that I yearned for the kind of

strong relationship he and his wife had.

I was young, and yet my heart was already

swelling with sensations, desires and

expectations I couldn't fully comprehend, but I

certainly accepted.

When the time to depart came, I had to

swallow a river of tears. Eagan noticed my

sadness. He didn't utter a word; he just held

me for an infinite moment.

3.

Rome is a city full of steps. And wherever

there are steps, there are also people sitting

on them.

The place where I'm supposed to meet

Eagan is an art gallery situated downtown. It is

an imposing, white building, that resembles an

ancient Roman temple.

I'm early, which for an Italian is quiet a rare

event. But then, I'm Italian only from my

mother side, my father is from the French part

of Switzerland.

I'm sitting on the ample steps, that lead to

the entrance of the gallery. To keep me

company I have Alessio, one of my best

friends, and his mp3 device, playing a tune

Alessio composed; the melody is so powerful

and haunting, that it pierces my already

tender heart.

Alessio, and his twin brother Ivan, are partly

Italian and partly British. Their father is from

Sicily but, due to his job, he and his family had

to move to Germany, therefore Ivan and

Alessio went to high-school in Berlin. When

they speak English they have a slight German

accent, when they speak Italian, they have an

almost incomprehensible Sicilian intonation.

Their British mother gave them their black,

straight hair, their pale skin, and their love for

music.

I'm nervous. I keep licking my lips and

rubbing my sweaty palms across my jeans-clad

thighs. Alessio, very gently, removes the

earphones from my ears, then he thumbs off

his mp3 player.

“Clém wants us to compose the music for

her show,” he says.

I smile. “We are a cover band. We don't

create. We imitate. Did you remind her?”

“We can give it a try,” he replies gently,

even as he strokes my long, inky-black hair.

Then he rummages inside my black shoulder

purse, which lays in my lap, and hands me my

dark-purple lipstick.

“Stop licking your lips,” he reprimands.

“Why didn't Clém mention the music idea to

me?” I give him the lipstick and leans toward

him, so that he can apply it, as I'm too shaky

to do it properly.

”I'm her roommate. I should be the first to

know these things,” I complain.

“You've been a little preoccupied lately,” he

remarks.

He smooths the purple smudges around my

lips with the tip of his thumb, then he glances

over my shoulder; a wide grin slowly stretches

his mouth.

I turn and see Eagan approaching. Dark-

blond hair cropped short on the sides, a bit

longer on the top of his head. Broad chest and

shoulders. Full, lush lips. Bright blue eyes and

an easy smile. Tall and fit, he's wearing dark

denim jeans and a gray sweatshirt.

Girls around us drop their conversations, lift

their gazes from books, forget about the text

messages they were about to send, to stare at

him. He just got himself another fan-club.

As we stand to greet him, I wave and Alessio

murmurs, “Wow.”

“I know.”

I make the introductions. Eagan shakes

Alessio's hand and gives him a warm smile.

Alessio blushes. His eyes wander to the white

steps, to the façade of the gallery, to the

people. He is incredibly timid especially

around attractive guys. He is sweet and caring,

and he could have all the best boyfriends in

the world, if only he'd overcome his shyness.

Alessio kisses my cheek and presses the

lipstick to my palm. “Forget what I said about

licking your lips,” he whispers.

I shove him playfully. “Go! I'll see you

later.”

Eagan observes Alessio walk away for a

moment, then his eyes settle on me; they're

not their usual bright blue, they appear

darker, more intense.

“I'm jealous,” he says.

I frown. “Of what? Alessio is-”

“I know. I caught the vibe. I'm jealous

because he gets to touch you and kiss you. All I

get is a wave.”

He moves toward me, and I take a step

backward, even as I gaze up at him, but I'm

unable to gauge is expression, for the early-

spring sun blinds me and forces me to avert my

gaze. To hide the discomfort and nervousness

caused by his presence and proximity, I make a

show of replacing the lipstick inside my purse.

“It's been years, Eagan. Things have

changed,” I mumble.

I'm still not looking at him, even so I can

perceive the tension gripping his taut body,

like a gust of heat. He shifts toward me,

blocking the sunlight with his frame.

“Look at me,” he demands.

I glance up at him and wince, for his eyes

are full of pain. I exhale a trembly breath,

then I go to him. I bury my face in his chest;

the familiar scent of cinnamon envelopes me,

and so do his arms; a cradle of velvet and

steel. I wrap my arms around his waist, and I

feel the tenseness leave his muscles.

“I missed this, kitty-cat,” he murmurs

against my hair, his voice deep and rough.

The popular, young artist Eagan is so curious

about, is a very mysterious personality. She

despises the media, so much so that no one

has ever seen her face. Regardless, people

adore her paintings, because the characters

she depicts have soulful and penetrating eyes,

that mesmerize and enchant the observers.

The unusual artist is quiet famous, but it is

a warm spring Sunday, and the Romans don't

spend such a day indoors, therefore the

museum is not crowded. Even so, Eagan keeps

bumping playfully against me.

“Sorry, didn't do that on purpose. Someone

pushed me,” he says with fake remorse.

“You're so doing that on purpose,” I

comment, and feign deep interest in a huge

painting portraying an emerald-green garden,

dotted with purple flowers and lemon trees.

But the beauty of the picture is unable to

capture my complete attention, for Eagan's

presence, his easy smiles, the smell of

cinnamon, claim my concentration; all my

senses are focused on him.

I resume walking, but I don't really notice

where I'm heading. Eagan follows me.

All of a sudden, he grabs my hand. Startled,

I look up at him, but his eyes are not on me,

they are fixed on one of the paintings. It's a

portrait of one of artist's muses. The naked

woman is lying on the wooden floor of the

painter's studio; her long strands create a dark

halo around her face, her breasts are small and

rounded, her nipples a deep red; her legs are

slightly parted, revealing a dark patch of hair.

She is staring at her audience, at us, with raw

and unveiled desire in her gaze. As we admire

her, Eagan's thumb draws small, insistent

circles across the back of my hand. My eyes

move to his face. His neck is flushed, and his

Adam's apple moves up and down, as he

swallows; he is aroused.

The unrelenting caress of his finger draws

goosebumps on my skin. My nipples harden and

strain against the thin cotton of my dark, long-

sleeved shirt. I feel an insistent throb between

my legs. I disentangle my hand from his and

curl my arms around myself in an attempt to

shield my body from all this sensations.

Eagan notices. “You alright?” He pulls me

into the cradle of his embrace.

“I'm fine.” My voice is small and strained. I

don't recognize it.

Eagan tucks a finger under my chin and tilts

my face upward, so that our gazes meet. His

eyes roam my face; except for a spark in their

blue depths, I can't figure out his expression.

And I can't stand his probing appraisal, so my

eyes dart away from his, and the moment

breaks. He lets go of me.

We continue walking, gazing and admiring.

By the end of the exposition Eagan suggests we

find a coffee-shop, to enjoy a cappuccino, but

mostly to talk. I nod. In truth, all I want is to

run away.

When we leave the exposition, the white

steps leading to the entrance of the gallery are

occupied by numerous people; their faces are

raised toward the sky, allowing the spring sun

to brush their skin.

Someone calls Eagan's name, and we turn to

see whom the voice belongs to. A portly young

man, about Eagan's age, approaches us. He has

longish dark hair and a round, beaming face.

He is followed by two pretty young women;

one is a brunette, the other has long, curly red

hair. Eagan introduces us. They are all his

coworkers, and they're all Italians. They have a

slight accent when they speak English, that

sounds funny on Enrico, the young man, and

sexy on the two young women. As soon as I

hear their names, I forget them.

They all smile at me politely, but then their

attention turns completely to Eagan. I half-

listen, because both my mind and my body

want to be somewhere else. I am witnessing a

fragment of Eagan's new life in Rome. It

involves fancy parties and clubs, that I've

never been to, although I've been living in

Rome for almost two years.

They want Eagan to go with them;

apparently they have a big night planned out,

which will begin with an early happy hour in a

famous Irish pub. This one at least I know and

have been to. Eagan glances at me and grins,

then he invites me to join them. The other

three, once again, smile politely. They don't

seem to really care if I go with them, or not.

I don't have a real reason to decline the

invitation, but I pretend I do, because the

entire situation is making me uncomfortable. It

is all evolving in a sort of painful slow motion.

The forced politeness, the way the woman

with dark hair smiles and touches Eagan's arm

and chest. In my mind, this strange film moves

quickly forward, and I can imagine what I

would see, were I to follow them. Her body

leaning in, grazing his. Him grabbing her hand,

and drawing arousing circles across her skin

with his thumb. I realize that it is all a product

of my active imagination, but it hurts

nonetheless.

“Thank you, but I have a previous

engagement.” This is what comes out of my

mouth.

I wave politely, then I leave.

I used to adore Eagan's expansiveness, but

now I detest it.

4.

When I was fourteen and Eagan was nineteen,