Regina Saxony
on the topic of names
“I don’t see how you drink that trash,” Regina curls her nose as she pours him the nearly crystal clear liquid. It fills the emptiness with its pungent aroma, nearly intoxicating him from the mere contact.
“It’s like swallowing hell, Ilya,” she whips her hand violently under her nose to waft the alcohol from her nostrils.
Ilya downs the shot without so much of a grimace as he stares at the skyline against the dark night, “There’s not sweet cognac where I’m from, tsarina,” he coldly rehashes. Intently staring at his literature, he takes a long drag of his cigarette, he is poor at concentration. “Another, dear.”
Regina sighs, unscrewing the sticky tin top of the heavy glass bottle, “Don’t drink yourself stupid now,” she remarks.
He says nothing, and the only thing that keeps Regina company as she stands on her tip toes to conceal the vodka in the top cabinet is the sound of rattling pages and the nearly nonexistent wisps of smoke curling from the cigarette. Ilya’s chest is bare, the hair thick and coarse like his sweater on Regina’s otherwise naked body. There were snags on the sides, it was made of dull colors, but it smelled like him before he became so stoic.
She watches him as she stares up from her knitting needles. “You’re getting better every day, darling,” Regina squeaks, trying to be as quiet as possible for fear he might lash out at her as he did frequently in these stressful days.
Slightly, the left corner of his mouth haggardly twitches upwards. He’s calloused. Wide-eyed with this gossamer veil of emotionless gazes that kill her softly. Sometimes, when she sits there with her tea and she watches his chest heave and his arms thrash in the early morning, she silently wishes in a dark corner of her thoughts that they had killed him. It was selfish, but, Regina hated to see him in this state of disrepair and disregard.
“Put down the knitting needles,” He sweetly commands as he continues to squint at the fine Cyrillic.
“Excuse me.”
“Put down the needles and come over here,” his old toothy grin rips across his weathered face. Some of the pearly whites are crooked, but that only made it all the more charming. Regina smirks as she places the needles on the rickety table. She sashays herself to him with her signature careless ease that was forgotten long ago. Patting his strong leg, Regina stares in a concerned hesitation. Lithely and as lightly as she can, she perches on his knee, he flips pages with his arm around her. “Josef gave me this book,” he conversationally quips.
Regina purses her lips into a fine line. “I said I didn’t want that name in this apartment.”
Ilya places a kiss on her jugular. She can feel his smile and it warms her. She can smell his aftershave and the alcohol on his breath. She can and she likes it. Leaning back, she nuzzles his neck with her nose, staring at the worn papers of the book and inhaling the sense-deafening vodka rolling off of him. “We’re living in sin little tsarina,” he whispers in her ear.
“I’m your nurse,” She defends. Ilya runs his askew fingers over the excess fabric of the sweater draped on her white as cream body. Giggling, she throws her toes onto the table, resting atop of the book without a care for whose book it was. “So we live in sin,” her eyebrows perch to a perplexity as her eyes close, “Our love isn’t a sonnet anyways.”
Ilya beams, snuffing out his cigarette on the windowsill.
“It’s like swallowing hell, Ilya,” she whips her hand violently under her nose to waft the alcohol from her nostrils.
Ilya downs the shot without so much of a grimace as he stares at the skyline against the dark night, “There’s not sweet cognac where I’m from, tsarina,” he coldly rehashes. Intently staring at his literature, he takes a long drag of his cigarette, he is poor at concentration. “Another, dear.”
Regina sighs, unscrewing the sticky tin top of the heavy glass bottle, “Don’t drink yourself stupid now,” she remarks.
He says nothing, and the only thing that keeps Regina company as she stands on her tip toes to conceal the vodka in the top cabinet is the sound of rattling pages and the nearly nonexistent wisps of smoke curling from the cigarette. Ilya’s chest is bare, the hair thick and coarse like his sweater on Regina’s otherwise naked body. There were snags on the sides, it was made of dull colors, but it smelled like him before he became so stoic.
She watches him as she stares up from her knitting needles. “You’re getting better every day, darling,” Regina squeaks, trying to be as quiet as possible for fear he might lash out at her as he did frequently in these stressful days.
Slightly, the left corner of his mouth haggardly twitches upwards. He’s calloused. Wide-eyed with this gossamer veil of emotionless gazes that kill her softly. Sometimes, when she sits there with her tea and she watches his chest heave and his arms thrash in the early morning, she silently wishes in a dark corner of her thoughts that they had killed him. It was selfish, but, Regina hated to see him in this state of disrepair and disregard.
“Put down the knitting needles,” He sweetly commands as he continues to squint at the fine Cyrillic.
“Excuse me.”
“Put down the needles and come over here,” his old toothy grin rips across his weathered face. Some of the pearly whites are crooked, but that only made it all the more charming. Regina smirks as she places the needles on the rickety table. She sashays herself to him with her signature careless ease that was forgotten long ago. Patting his strong leg, Regina stares in a concerned hesitation. Lithely and as lightly as she can, she perches on his knee, he flips pages with his arm around her. “Josef gave me this book,” he conversationally quips.
Regina purses her lips into a fine line. “I said I didn’t want that name in this apartment.”
Ilya places a kiss on her jugular. She can feel his smile and it warms her. She can smell his aftershave and the alcohol on his breath. She can and she likes it. Leaning back, she nuzzles his neck with her nose, staring at the worn papers of the book and inhaling the sense-deafening vodka rolling off of him. “We’re living in sin little tsarina,” he whispers in her ear.
“I’m your nurse,” She defends. Ilya runs his askew fingers over the excess fabric of the sweater draped on her white as cream body. Giggling, she throws her toes onto the table, resting atop of the book without a care for whose book it was. “So we live in sin,” her eyebrows perch to a perplexity as her eyes close, “Our love isn’t a sonnet anyways.”
Ilya beams, snuffing out his cigarette on the windowsill.
♠ ♠ ♠
meh two chapters in a day yis