Regina Saxony
on the topic of teacups
“Read to me,” He whispers, pointing to his bag on the floor. Regina nods obediently, blinking, and realizing after the fact she hadn’t blinked in the longest time.
She reaches into the duffel bag she’d picked certain items from in the past several weeks. The dishes piled in the basin, reeking of tea and sour milk. Understanding it will have to be done some time, she only sighs for the time being. Dusting a precariously crisp copy from his duffel wedged between clothes, Regina grimaces at the title, knowing that she must read it to the rather pitiful Ilya.
“This is Vladimir Lenin,” Regina worries, fidgeting as she turns the cover of the thin paper to where Ilya had dog eared the page he last stopped on.
“Yakov gave that to me,” Ilya blankly says as he blankly stares at the equally blank cement. Everything lacks a feeling except that draining feeling of urgency. “Just read it to me dear, please?” He whimpers and Regina begins to read.
He smiles, softly, faintly, it’s barely there as he tries to reposition himself on the thick blankets. She pauses, scanning over the strengthened, foreign body as she realizes this is the first night they’ll spend together, they’ll look at those same stars from the same place. The Pisces will be fully illuminated off in some distant corner of the universe, shining forever on them regardless of the book Regina recites to him.
Reading until her throat is raw, and then some, he watches her and tries to comprehend the larger words. Only sometimes does he stop her to ask the meanings. Whilst scanning each page her eyes become bloodshot with tiredness, her voice becomes ragged and hoarse. His pain increases with the dimming fire, but he doesn’t dare complain, he simply inches up a blanket when she’s too preoccupied to see him. Eventually, she heaps another birch log onto the fire with nothing to say.
“Ilya, I can’t anymore, dear,” she sighs in some kind of disappointment.
With a cough she removes her calloused feet from the side of the bed and peels herself from the chair she moved to his bedside. Retrieving a blanket from Pavla’s old bed, she drags herself back to the plastic chair and curls herself in it. It doesn’t look comfortable, but her small smirk of completion told him that like a great summit, she wasn’t going to move with the push of one man (or a thousand). So he let it go and let that contagious rest inflict her. “It was perfect, Regina, thank you.” He tries to project his voice, it comes out breathy and wretched, reflecting over everything and nothing at all.
Regina wistfully peaks her eyebrows, her teeth revealing from behind her lips, “You came back to me.”
Ilya chuckles, searing pain rips around his chest, but it feels nice around his lips that have ached to smile for an indefinite period of time. “I guess I did.”
“I love you,” she whispers, her nose crinkling in a childish delight.
“Me too.”
And he sat and watched her and listened to the crackle of the fire and the stars dashing above them, above the concrete, above their hopes and dreams and their human limitations. It was humbling, but oh-so-real and attainable. If he could walk he’d lean out of the windowsill and scoop the galactic matter into a teacup, he would do it.
She reaches into the duffel bag she’d picked certain items from in the past several weeks. The dishes piled in the basin, reeking of tea and sour milk. Understanding it will have to be done some time, she only sighs for the time being. Dusting a precariously crisp copy from his duffel wedged between clothes, Regina grimaces at the title, knowing that she must read it to the rather pitiful Ilya.
“This is Vladimir Lenin,” Regina worries, fidgeting as she turns the cover of the thin paper to where Ilya had dog eared the page he last stopped on.
“Yakov gave that to me,” Ilya blankly says as he blankly stares at the equally blank cement. Everything lacks a feeling except that draining feeling of urgency. “Just read it to me dear, please?” He whimpers and Regina begins to read.
He smiles, softly, faintly, it’s barely there as he tries to reposition himself on the thick blankets. She pauses, scanning over the strengthened, foreign body as she realizes this is the first night they’ll spend together, they’ll look at those same stars from the same place. The Pisces will be fully illuminated off in some distant corner of the universe, shining forever on them regardless of the book Regina recites to him.
Reading until her throat is raw, and then some, he watches her and tries to comprehend the larger words. Only sometimes does he stop her to ask the meanings. Whilst scanning each page her eyes become bloodshot with tiredness, her voice becomes ragged and hoarse. His pain increases with the dimming fire, but he doesn’t dare complain, he simply inches up a blanket when she’s too preoccupied to see him. Eventually, she heaps another birch log onto the fire with nothing to say.
“Ilya, I can’t anymore, dear,” she sighs in some kind of disappointment.
With a cough she removes her calloused feet from the side of the bed and peels herself from the chair she moved to his bedside. Retrieving a blanket from Pavla’s old bed, she drags herself back to the plastic chair and curls herself in it. It doesn’t look comfortable, but her small smirk of completion told him that like a great summit, she wasn’t going to move with the push of one man (or a thousand). So he let it go and let that contagious rest inflict her. “It was perfect, Regina, thank you.” He tries to project his voice, it comes out breathy and wretched, reflecting over everything and nothing at all.
Regina wistfully peaks her eyebrows, her teeth revealing from behind her lips, “You came back to me.”
Ilya chuckles, searing pain rips around his chest, but it feels nice around his lips that have ached to smile for an indefinite period of time. “I guess I did.”
“I love you,” she whispers, her nose crinkling in a childish delight.
“Me too.”
And he sat and watched her and listened to the crackle of the fire and the stars dashing above them, above the concrete, above their hopes and dreams and their human limitations. It was humbling, but oh-so-real and attainable. If he could walk he’d lean out of the windowsill and scoop the galactic matter into a teacup, he would do it.