A Veil of Glass and Rain (24 page)

took numerous pictures. But mostly we talked

about love. Bea and Arthur, Jean and

Margherita told us, over and over again, about

their strong bond and their needy devotion.

They explained to us that such love is equally

resilient and fragile. Eagan and I expressed our

agreement and understanding. Then we

recounted our own struggles and our own

journey. Before bidding us good-bye,
à bien

tot
and
arrivederci
, our parents gave us words

of approval and affection.

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:

[email protected]