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email.” His tone has
    changed. He sounds more playful; I picture the
    familiar smile stretching his full lips.
    “Goodnight, Brina.”
    “Goodnight, Eagan.”
    The email Eagan sent me contains an
    attachment. It's a picture of a flower with
    deep pink petals. There is also a message.
    “Delicate and resilient. Like you.”
    It is a sweet and friendly gesture. Of course,
    Eagan doesn't know, and never will, the effect
    his words and actions have on me. By the time
    I shut down my lap-top and curl up under my
    blanket, my nipples are still pebbled and my
    core is still thrumming. But there is also a
    heavy melancholy that envelopes me. The
    strong girl that Eagan remembers, disappeared
    a long time ago. The grown-up version of the
    girl he used to know is neither soft nor strong;
    she's lost and very confused.
    6.
    The smell of classrooms, of nervous sweating,
    and the smog of Rome cling stubbornly to my
    clothes and my skin. As soon as I get home, I
    immerse myself into a scalding shower,
    ignoring the mess that invades the house.
    Clémentine's been busy with exams and
    rehearsals with her theater group. I have been
    simply distracted and preoccupied; our
    apartment is paying the price of neglect.
    I want to drown the day in steamy water
    and lemon scented body-wash. Once I
    considered getting cinnamon scented soap, but
    I soon dropped the idea, because it felt too
    masochistic.
    I turn on the stereo and let the sultry blues
    tunes invade the house.
    The water rains on me, almost bruising my
    skin; the scent of lemon erases the day from
    my body, but not from my mind.
    After Eagan's phone-call I wasn't able to fall
    asleep, so when I met my professor at
    university this morning, I felt edgy and
    behaved distractedly.
    Miss Tessitori, my History of European
    Cinema professor, is becoming impatient, and I
    don't blame her; in order to gain credits for
    her course, I have to write a final paper,
    however, I'm unable to select a topic.
    The twins, Ivan and Alessio, were with me
    today, but they already chose their subject.
    I envy them. They always seem to know
    where their life is heading and what they want
    to achieve.
    Professor Tessitori, before we left, gave us
    an application form. It's for a scholarship; in
    case we win, it will allow us to spend two
    months in a capital of Europe, to study,
    research and prepare our final paper. All we
    have to do is submit an interesting idea.
    The twins are planning to write something
    about cinema and music. They'll even compose
    an original piece for the occasion.
    “Why are you giving this to me? I have no
    idea what to write,” I told my professor.
    “Exactly. Perhaps all you need is an
    incentive,” she explained.
    “You can work with us,” Alessio interjected.
    “We don't mind.”
    We were standing in the hallway, just
    outside our professor's office. Miss Tessitori
    was leaning against the open door of the
    office, arms crossed, expression stern. “I
    forbid it. She needs to do this on her own. Quit
    coddling her.” With that, she dismissed us.
    I normally appreciate the twins'
    protectiveness, but in that moment I tried to
    consider us through our professor's eyes. Ivan
    had his arm around my shoulder and Alessio
    was holding my hand. The image I gave to Miss
    Tessitori, an authority figure, was of fragility,
    and I felt ashamed.
    The water is getting cold. I turn it off, but I
    remain in the shower stall. The scent of lemon
    still lingers in the enclosed space. My body is
    finally relaxing and my mind, without my
    consent, is conjuring up images of gardens and
    deep-pink flowers.
    Eagan's fingers stroke soft petals.
    He sighs in the sunlight and his naked body
    turns toward mine. I breathe in the smell of
    cinnamon and the scent of him; his warmth is
    a welcome contrast with the cool grass
    underneath my back.
    Eagan traces his fingertips across my belly.
    I quiver. Then he smooths his right hand down
    my navel until he reaches my intimate dark
    curls. I