preferred
comfort food: Supplì , arancini and filetti di
baccalà .
“I'm sorry,” Eagan says, while we wait for
our turn to pay.
“For what?”
“The day we went to the park, I saw Marco
and Virginie.”
“Yes, you told me.”
“Well, they were all cozy, but I didn't think
much of it, because, you know-” He hesitates
and bows his head shyly.
I find the action quiet endearing.
“What?” I encourage him.
“Because I'm like that too. I'm open and
affectionate with everyone,” he concludes.
I wrap my arms around his waist and I bury
my face in his shirt. Images appear in my head
of Marco and Virginie dancing, and then
sharing an innocent kiss.
“It doesn't matter now, Eagan. I only want
Clém to be happy again.”
Eagan kisses the top of my head and holds
me for a few moments. Then, before I can
protest, he lets go of me and pays for our
food.
“I want to take care of you and your
friends,” he explains.
I close the door of Clém's bedroom to keep
outside the voices of Eagan and the twins, but
mostly the heavy smell of fried food.
The room is illuminated by the discreet light
of the bedside lamp.
Clémentine is not a tidy person; she's too
busy living life to worry about cleaning and
dusting. I don't mind, because I appreciate her
energy. She's always reading, watching movies,
or going to theater shows. And every morning
she runs. I both admire and envy her vivacity.
Now her space smells of tears and sleep.
The floor is a battlefield of books, clothes and
tissue papers. My active friend has been
sleeping all day long.
I open the window to let the spring night in;
I hope it will chase away some of the sadness
that lingers in the bedroom.
Clém stirs and sits up, propping her back up
against her pillow. I sit beside her on the
narrow bed and I gently stroke her long, blond
hair.
“Thanks for the party, but I'm not leaving
this bed,” she says, her voice small and rough.
“Can I fetch you something very unhealthy
to eat?”
She gives me a sad smile. “No, thanks.”
“What can I do, Clém?”
For a moment a mischievous spark appears
in her green eyes. She glances quickly at the
door. “Tell me about your American dude.”
“He loves me,” I blurt out. ”He came here
for me. He wants me to move in with him.
Well, he didn't ask me explicitly, but he
thought about us living together when he
chose his apartment. Anyway, I'll keep paying
my half of the rent until you find another
roommate, don't worry. I doubt Eagan will let
me pay for anything. He wants to take care of
me. It's very sweet, but still-”
Clém squeezes my hand, interrupting my
monologue.
“Are you happy, Brina?” She demands.
“Yes.” My heart springs in unison with my
answer.
Then a dense silence descends. It blankets
us in a choking embrace. We turn to stare at
the shelf where the television set used to be
situated. Now it's a dusty emptiness.
At length, Clém shakes her head and grabs
the pillow from behind her. Then she begins to
punch it.
“My best friend and my boyfriend. I'm a
frigging cliché,” she grumbles.
“Punishing evil pillows is satisfying, but
saying the f-word is very satisfying,” I offer.
She hits her poor pillow one more time.
“Fuck! I am a cliché and I hate it!” She
declares loudly.
The door bursts open, letting Alessio inside.
He stares at us, shielding his mouth with his
hand; a pose of fake consternation.
“You said fuck ,” he hisses.
As soon as I step into our small living room, I
know something I will not like is about to
happen. I glance at the closed door of Clém's
bedroom, and I wish I were still there, talking
to her and Alessio.
Eagan and Ivan are sitting cross-legged on
the floor, around our small coffee table. The
crumbs in their plates and the empty bottles
tell me about their full stomachs, while the
lap-tops in front of them are the opening of a
story I don't want to hear.
Eagan smiles, but in
comfort food: Supplì , arancini and filetti di
baccalà .
“I'm sorry,” Eagan says, while we wait for
our turn to pay.
“For what?”
“The day we went to the park, I saw Marco
and Virginie.”
“Yes, you told me.”
“Well, they were all cozy, but I didn't think
much of it, because, you know-” He hesitates
and bows his head shyly.
I find the action quiet endearing.
“What?” I encourage him.
“Because I'm like that too. I'm open and
affectionate with everyone,” he concludes.
I wrap my arms around his waist and I bury
my face in his shirt. Images appear in my head
of Marco and Virginie dancing, and then
sharing an innocent kiss.
“It doesn't matter now, Eagan. I only want
Clém to be happy again.”
Eagan kisses the top of my head and holds
me for a few moments. Then, before I can
protest, he lets go of me and pays for our
food.
“I want to take care of you and your
friends,” he explains.
I close the door of Clém's bedroom to keep
outside the voices of Eagan and the twins, but
mostly the heavy smell of fried food.
The room is illuminated by the discreet light
of the bedside lamp.
Clémentine is not a tidy person; she's too
busy living life to worry about cleaning and
dusting. I don't mind, because I appreciate her
energy. She's always reading, watching movies,
or going to theater shows. And every morning
she runs. I both admire and envy her vivacity.
Now her space smells of tears and sleep.
The floor is a battlefield of books, clothes and
tissue papers. My active friend has been
sleeping all day long.
I open the window to let the spring night in;
I hope it will chase away some of the sadness
that lingers in the bedroom.
Clém stirs and sits up, propping her back up
against her pillow. I sit beside her on the
narrow bed and I gently stroke her long, blond
hair.
“Thanks for the party, but I'm not leaving
this bed,” she says, her voice small and rough.
“Can I fetch you something very unhealthy
to eat?”
She gives me a sad smile. “No, thanks.”
“What can I do, Clém?”
For a moment a mischievous spark appears
in her green eyes. She glances quickly at the
door. “Tell me about your American dude.”
“He loves me,” I blurt out. ”He came here
for me. He wants me to move in with him.
Well, he didn't ask me explicitly, but he
thought about us living together when he
chose his apartment. Anyway, I'll keep paying
my half of the rent until you find another
roommate, don't worry. I doubt Eagan will let
me pay for anything. He wants to take care of
me. It's very sweet, but still-”
Clém squeezes my hand, interrupting my
monologue.
“Are you happy, Brina?” She demands.
“Yes.” My heart springs in unison with my
answer.
Then a dense silence descends. It blankets
us in a choking embrace. We turn to stare at
the shelf where the television set used to be
situated. Now it's a dusty emptiness.
At length, Clém shakes her head and grabs
the pillow from behind her. Then she begins to
punch it.
“My best friend and my boyfriend. I'm a
frigging cliché,” she grumbles.
“Punishing evil pillows is satisfying, but
saying the f-word is very satisfying,” I offer.
She hits her poor pillow one more time.
“Fuck! I am a cliché and I hate it!” She
declares loudly.
The door bursts open, letting Alessio inside.
He stares at us, shielding his mouth with his
hand; a pose of fake consternation.
“You said fuck ,” he hisses.
As soon as I step into our small living room, I
know something I will not like is about to
happen. I glance at the closed door of Clém's
bedroom, and I wish I were still there, talking
to her and Alessio.
Eagan and Ivan are sitting cross-legged on
the floor, around our small coffee table. The
crumbs in their plates and the empty bottles
tell me about their full stomachs, while the
lap-tops in front of them are the opening of a
story I don't want to hear.
Eagan smiles, but in
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