Regina Saxony

Pavla spritzes perfume on her neck, her pale, perfect neck. Regina is preoccupied reading, trying to buffer out the sounds of the rioting with a thick afghan shoved in the windowsill, sealing away the noise as she reads her worn books. Dog earing a page, Regina looks up to catch a glimpse of the ever glamorous (and slightly superfluous) woman with pearls around her neck and a white fur cinched around her tiny little waist with this tiny little black belt. “Don’t you just love it?” Pavla husks, flashing an enigmatic white smile.

Regina ruffles her own slightly mousy hair and tries to not envy the opulence her friend could carry so well. “The artist approves,” A corner of her chapped mouth slide wryly up the side of her sweet little face.

“Clothes fit for your average tsarina,” Pavla circles with more charm than a prima ballerina passionately gliding across the stage as if on clouds. It’s quite intoxicating to have sheer happiness fill a room. Everything becomes warmer, fuzzy, less refined and a truly beautiful golden sheen ripples across everything. Regina witnessed this phenomena many times in her life, and she sincerely wished other people did too. “I’m going to shop,” Pavla declares robustly as she clutches her satin handbag.

“You stay safe, sunshine, there’s quite a commotion,” Regina mutters, returning to the leathery, brown pages of a very old copy of Candide. Annotations were scribbled in the margins in a boxy, efficient Cyrillic. The book smelled of paper, musk, and cologne. A strange collection of notes, but an inviting scent to pair with the smokiness of her tea.

“I do love you, Regina, your little rosy cheeks and quips,” Pavla leans against the doorframe, waving goodbye from the inside.

“And I love your realism.”

“Bye Regina.”

“Bye Pavla.”

And without a single distraction, she returns to the solace of a simpler (though heavily satirical) world of print and paper.