A Veil of Glass and Rain (7 page)

has her hands on his shoulders. I recall her

name now: Sara.

She's wearing a light-blue, strapless tight

dress, that showcases her curvy body. The

color perfectly matches Eagan's eyes. They

seem perfect together.

I consider my outfit; a black mini-skirt, with

black stockings, a white blouse and a black

corset, which gives the illusion that my breasts

are fuller. No make up, except for deep-purple

lipstick. It is what I used to wear for our gigs.

Ivan calls it “punk-rock-elegant” style.

Tonight, a small velvet shoulder purse

completes the outfit.

When Marco saw me earlier, he whistled his

appreciation. “Welcome back, rock star!”

Now I feel inadequate.

A hand on my shoulder catches my

attention. I turn and find Clém beside me. She

glances at Eagan and his partner, then stares

at me.

“Go,” she mouths.

I nod, and look behind her for Marco and

Virginie. They are dancing and kissing. It's a

brief, soft, innocent brush of lips, nevertheless

it makes me uncomfortable.

Clém, whose attention is still on me,

mistakes my expression for something else, for

she bends a little to utter in my ear, “It's all

right. We'll catch a cab. Go. You don't have to

see this.”

Rome is chaotic, but it can also be soothing.

As I cross the stone bridge that leads to

where we parked the car, I feel my heart

pulsing in my ears. The smells of the club,

alcohol, sweat, perfumes, still linger on my

clothes and on my skin.

I pause.

The stone beneath my feet still holds the

day warmth. It bleeds into my skin. I realize

it's a temporary relief, but I appreciate it

nonetheless.

Cars are not allowed on this particular

bridge, because it's ancient. People stroll by

on either side of me. They talk, they laugh,

they murmur.

I listen to them for a while, without really

taking in their words, then I make myself cross

the bridge.

When I reach my car, I feel calm enough to

drive.

My car is small but sturdy. My parents gave

it to me for my eighteenth birthday. They

chose the brand, but I picked the color. My car

is yellow: Eagan's favorite color.

With endless patience and persistence I

manage to get the car out of the narrow

parking spot we were able to find. I shift

gears, but as I'm about to pick up speed, all of

a sudden someone appears in front of the

vehicle. I break and my car groans unhappily.

“Are you crazy?” I yell from the open

window. I kill the engine, then I rest my

forehead against the steering wheel; my

fingers grip it tightly. After a few moments, I

feel a warm and gentle hand on my nape.

“Brina, it's me,” Eagan says.

I jerk my head up. The sudden movement

dislodges Eagan's hand from my neck. When I

glare at him, he smiles.

“Are you crazy, Eagan?” I unwrap my fingers

from around the steering wheel and place my

hands on my legs. I stroke my thighs with slow,

soothing motions.

Eagan stares at my legs for a long moment,

then he positions his hands on the car hood

and leans in. The pose flaunts his broad chest

and strong arms. I try very hard not to gape.

“Where are you running, kitty-cat?”

“I'm
going
to the cinema.”

“Cool.” He pushes away from the car and

walks around it until he reaches the passenger

side. He opens the door and slides into the

seat. “What are we going to see?”

I unbuckle myself and twist toward him.

“We?”

“Yeah.” He grins.

“It's a student film festival. The movies will

likely be long and full of obscure meanings and

metaphors.” I wrap my arms across my chest

and wait for him to give up.

“With English subtitles?” He demands.

“Yes.”

“Bring it,” he says, still smiling.

I have to force my lips not to curl into a

smile in response. “What about your office

party?”

He shrugs. “You and the very long flicks are

much more appealing.”

Even if both the driver and the passenger

windows are open, the scents of cinnamon,

sweat and male skin saturate the car. It is a

heady mixture that makes my insides clench.

I lose the battle against myself and beam.

“How did you find me, anyway?”

His eyes rove my face and my body. His lips

part and a peculiar spark flickers in his bright

blue eyes. “Your friend, Clém. She approached

me. She introduced herself. And she told me

where to find you.”

His gaze drifts away from me. He buckles

himself, and I do the same.

“What about your dark haired lady?” I

inquire, as I restart the car.

“Who?”

Good answer.

“Traffic lights are there for a reason. Stop

signs are there for a reason. And speed limits

are there for very good reasons.” One of

Eagan's hands is braced against the dashboard,

the other one grips the edge of his seat.

“Eagan, trust me. In Rome, following the

rules is dangerous.”

“It doesn't make sense!” He snaps.

“It does. Think about it. It's way more

dangerous if I'm the only one who respects the

speed limit,” I calmly explain.

Cars speed by on our left and on our right.

“Damn idiots,” Eagan hisses.

“Eagan...” My hand leaves the stick shift, in

order to reach out to him and comfort him. I've

never seen him so agitated and afraid.

His hand shoots up and clasps around my

wrist

”No. Just fucking focus on what you're

doing,” he growls.

“Fine. But you're cutting off my

circulation,” I wail.

Eagan lets go of my throbbing wrist. I grasp

the gear stick once again.

I realize that the road in front of me is now

a blurry mess of lights and shapes; my eyes are

moist. I blink repeatedly to chase away the

tears.

Eagan heaves a deep sigh. Then he rests his

arm on the back of my seat. It's a more relaxed

pose, but it doesn't fool me, for I can feel his

body vibrate with tension.

“Tell me why you quit music school,” Eagan

says.

The question surprises me. “It wasn't fun

anymore,” I mutter.

“Pity. You were really good,” he comments.

I snort softly. “You've never heard me play.

How do you know?”

“I just do.”

“Right.”

I know he's staring at me, for I can feel his

gaze on my face like a touch. My skin flushes.

“I wanted to be there. You know I did. Is

that really why you quit?” Gentleness

permeates his tone, still I also detect a whiff

of wariness.

“I quit, because I was bored.”

“Such a waste,” he mumbles.

“Look, I still have the guitar you gave me. If

you want it back to resell it, or whatever, you

can have it.” I manage to sound calm and

detached. I concentrate on driving, on the

street and on the other cars. Inside, though,

I'm crying, punching, crumbling.

“Fuck you, Brina!” He's angry, offended,

hurt.

“Right back at you, Eagan,” I rasp out.

We deliver the words to each other wrapped

in ice. I can almost feel their cold bite on my

fingertips. I'm tempted to examine them to see

if they're bleeding

“I'm trying to be your friend, Brina. Again.”

Anger has abandoned his voice, now he sounds

sad.

I'm glad my eyes have something else to

focus on, as I don't want to watch his

expression marked by disappointment and

sorrow.

“Friends don't judge, Eagan. Friends accept

and understand. If I tell you, I want to play air

guitar for the rest of my life, your only

comment should be: Can I be your groupie for

the rest of my life?”

He laughs. I finally glance at him. His fingers

are pressed against his temples, stroking away

the tension; but he's laughing.

On the way from the parking lot to the movie

theater we don't talk. I stare at my shoes, at

the gravel, at the people around us. Eagan

grabs my hand and his fingers brush the fading

calluses on my fingertips, left there by the

strings of my almost forgotten guitar. I sigh

and brace myself for another argument. It

doesn't happen.

Instead, I'm pulled, pushed and then I find

my back against a wall. Eagan's taut frame is

bent toward mine, and my body is arched

toward his. We create a peculiar sculpture of

opposite forces. He cups my face in his palms

and makes me look up at him. His lips are so

close to mine, that I feel the whisper of his

breath against my mouth; I smell mint and a

hint of beer. I desire a kiss so desperately, my

body is humming with longing. I curl my fingers

around his wrists.

“I hate fighting with you,” he admits

huskily.

“I know. Me too.”

“I need to hold you.”

I nod and let him fold his arms around me. I

bury my face against his chest and utter soft

sounds of contentment as his warmth leaks

into my skin.

I glance at our shadows painted on the

gravel by darkness and streetlights; we're not

opposite forces any longer, we're one single

being.

Italians are genetically incapable of standing in

an orderly line, so much so that the movie

theater seems more crowded than it actually

is. As we wait to buy our tickets, Eagan's

fingers remain wrapped around my hand, but

we're both quiet again.

My gaze begins to wander once more. I

notice my friend Ivan. He's standing near one

of the entrances. He winks at me then he

stares at Eagan with unhindered interest.

While his twin, Alessio, feels uncomfortable

with his body and sexuality, Ivan is completely

safe in his own skin. He's wearing his work

clothes, a blue T-shirt, decorated with the

movie theater logo, and jeans, even so he

manages to look stylish.

“So, how many of you are going to watch

the student film festival?” He asks loudly, as

he moves toward the crowd.

Eagan and I, along with other few people,

raise our hands.

Ivan scratches his chin, pretending to

consider the situation. “I see. Well, what if I

tell you,” he continues, switching to his

heavily accented Italian, “that there is a

spanking scene in one of the films? Oh, yes,

you heard me!”

More hands join ours. Ivan grins.

“Did you understand?” I ask Eagan.

He shakes his head., so I translate for him.

“Nice.” He remarks.

Later, as we amble back to my car, Eagan's

expression seems more relaxed.

The movies were all well written and

expertly directed. The one I preferred was

about two kids that become friends, then

lovers. Unexpected events separate them, but

eventually they find their way back to each

other. During the projection, my heart broke

and then soared, and my cold fingers were

enclosed within Eagan's warm hands.

The twins walk with us. Ivan asks Eagan

about his new life in Rome, about his job and

his apartment, meanwhile his gaze peruses and

admires my best friend's hot body. Eagan

answers politely and nervously rubs at the back

of his neck.

Alessio winds an arm around my shoulders

and nods toward Eagan. “You're enjoying his

discomfort, aren't you?”

I give him a wicked smile. “Perhaps.”

I let Ivan drive, because he's very careful,

and I want to keep Eagan serene.

I sit in the back with Alessio. I let the twins

and Eagan monopolize the conversation.

Before pulling out of the parking lot, Ivan

fumbles with the radio, then he examines the

few CD’s I keep in the car. Finally, he decides

to connect his MP3 player. His play-list

becomes the accompaniment to our short

journey.

I glance at the city sliding outside the

window, while my friends' voices, along with

the music, melt into the rumbling of the car

engine.

Then all sounds fade to nothingness.

8.