Read Online A Veil of Glass and Rain by Petra F. Bagnardi - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Petra F. Bagnardi
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to be
heard. My head needs to build stronger walls.
When Eagan stretches out behind me and
folds his arm around my waist, I close my eyes
and sigh. His hand covers my abdomen
protectively. He buries his face in my hair and
whispers my name.
My soul moans his name in response.
Voices laughing and yelling, leaves chiming, I
open my eyes to a sea of deep green grass,
dotted with white daisies.
I'm alone. I sit up and glance around. Then I
hear the screams again.
Not far from where we placed our blankets,
Eagan is playing soccer with a group of guys
and girls. They cheer and yell in Italian, but it
doesn't appear to be a problem for Eagan,
because Italian gestures are very eloquent.
The game stops for a moment. Two guys
quarrel about a faulty kick, they gesture a lot,
then they both laugh. The game resumes.
Eagan's gaze search for me.
When he finds me, he waves and I wave
back. A guy calls his name. Eagan turns and
runs after the ball.
I envy their energy. Love is like poison for
me. It renders me too fragile; it's the last thing
I need.
I stretch out onto my back, I tip my face
toward the sky and close my eyes. After a few
moments, I hear the sound of footsteps,
muffled by the soft carpet of grass and pine-
needles. Then Eagan's body is alongside mine,
warming my skin.
I don't open my eyes. Once again Eagan
plays with my senses. The smell of sweat and
cinnamon enfolds me. His fingers circle my
wrist and his thumb strokes my pulse. His lips
brush along my temple, my eyelids, my chin.
They hover over my mouth; his minty breath
caresses my lips. My own breathing quickens
with hope and anticipation. I'm tempted to
urge him to reclaim the kiss I stole four years
ago, but I don't. I just wait.
Then, as delicate as a feather across my
lips, his mouth touches mine. I smile.
“Finally. A smile,” he says. But his words
don't brush my skin anymore.
I open my eyes and seek him; he's close to
me, but not close enough. I hide my desires
once more.
“I need to pee,” I tell him.
He grins. “Well, let's find you a toilet,
then.”
The mood is definitely crushed.
When I step out of the not-so-clean public
restroom, Eagan is frowning at the path that
circles the park.
“What?” I ask.
“I think I saw a couple of friends of yours,”
he answers without looking at me. “The Italian
guy and the other Canadian girl.”
“Marco and Virginie?”
He turns toward me, a confused expression
still marks his face. “Yes.”
“And?”
“Are they together?”
I shake my head. “Marco is Clém's boyfriend.
Why?”
He shrugs. “Nothing.”
“Are you sure? You seem preoccupied,” I
insist.
“It's nothing. Let's go.”
We take a cab. I don't protest this time.
As the driver waits, he walks me to the
entrance of my building.
“Thank you. For everything,” I tell him.
He hands me my back-pack. “It was my
pleasure, Brina.”
I laugh softly. “We're so formal.”
He frames my face in his warm hands and
leans forward to kiss my forehead.
“Yeah. I wonder why,” he murmurs against
my skin.
He stays until I'm inside the building, then
he leaves.
My body wants to return outside. It craves
to seize Eagan and melt into his warmth and
strength, before the cab takes him away.
When the doors of the elevator close behind
me, I sigh with deep relief.
10.
I stare at the window dressing and I grimace; it
doesn't work. Nothing really does today.
I work part-time in a bookstore located near
Piazza Navona . The pay is quiet decent,
considering it's a part-time job. Money,
however, is not the only reason why I enjoy
working here.
My bosses, Lucrezia and Vittorio, are
amazing. They're a married couple, in their
late fifties. They both come from rich families,
so the bookstore is more of a hobby than a real
necessity, therefore working for them is
extremely easy; their main purpose is not
business, but pleasure.
The store is a spacious loft with a
heard. My head needs to build stronger walls.
When Eagan stretches out behind me and
folds his arm around my waist, I close my eyes
and sigh. His hand covers my abdomen
protectively. He buries his face in my hair and
whispers my name.
My soul moans his name in response.
Voices laughing and yelling, leaves chiming, I
open my eyes to a sea of deep green grass,
dotted with white daisies.
I'm alone. I sit up and glance around. Then I
hear the screams again.
Not far from where we placed our blankets,
Eagan is playing soccer with a group of guys
and girls. They cheer and yell in Italian, but it
doesn't appear to be a problem for Eagan,
because Italian gestures are very eloquent.
The game stops for a moment. Two guys
quarrel about a faulty kick, they gesture a lot,
then they both laugh. The game resumes.
Eagan's gaze search for me.
When he finds me, he waves and I wave
back. A guy calls his name. Eagan turns and
runs after the ball.
I envy their energy. Love is like poison for
me. It renders me too fragile; it's the last thing
I need.
I stretch out onto my back, I tip my face
toward the sky and close my eyes. After a few
moments, I hear the sound of footsteps,
muffled by the soft carpet of grass and pine-
needles. Then Eagan's body is alongside mine,
warming my skin.
I don't open my eyes. Once again Eagan
plays with my senses. The smell of sweat and
cinnamon enfolds me. His fingers circle my
wrist and his thumb strokes my pulse. His lips
brush along my temple, my eyelids, my chin.
They hover over my mouth; his minty breath
caresses my lips. My own breathing quickens
with hope and anticipation. I'm tempted to
urge him to reclaim the kiss I stole four years
ago, but I don't. I just wait.
Then, as delicate as a feather across my
lips, his mouth touches mine. I smile.
“Finally. A smile,” he says. But his words
don't brush my skin anymore.
I open my eyes and seek him; he's close to
me, but not close enough. I hide my desires
once more.
“I need to pee,” I tell him.
He grins. “Well, let's find you a toilet,
then.”
The mood is definitely crushed.
When I step out of the not-so-clean public
restroom, Eagan is frowning at the path that
circles the park.
“What?” I ask.
“I think I saw a couple of friends of yours,”
he answers without looking at me. “The Italian
guy and the other Canadian girl.”
“Marco and Virginie?”
He turns toward me, a confused expression
still marks his face. “Yes.”
“And?”
“Are they together?”
I shake my head. “Marco is Clém's boyfriend.
Why?”
He shrugs. “Nothing.”
“Are you sure? You seem preoccupied,” I
insist.
“It's nothing. Let's go.”
We take a cab. I don't protest this time.
As the driver waits, he walks me to the
entrance of my building.
“Thank you. For everything,” I tell him.
He hands me my back-pack. “It was my
pleasure, Brina.”
I laugh softly. “We're so formal.”
He frames my face in his warm hands and
leans forward to kiss my forehead.
“Yeah. I wonder why,” he murmurs against
my skin.
He stays until I'm inside the building, then
he leaves.
My body wants to return outside. It craves
to seize Eagan and melt into his warmth and
strength, before the cab takes him away.
When the doors of the elevator close behind
me, I sigh with deep relief.
10.
I stare at the window dressing and I grimace; it
doesn't work. Nothing really does today.
I work part-time in a bookstore located near
Piazza Navona . The pay is quiet decent,
considering it's a part-time job. Money,
however, is not the only reason why I enjoy
working here.
My bosses, Lucrezia and Vittorio, are
amazing. They're a married couple, in their
late fifties. They both come from rich families,
so the bookstore is more of a hobby than a real
necessity, therefore working for them is
extremely easy; their main purpose is not
business, but pleasure.
The store is a spacious loft with a
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