Regina Saxony
on the topic of sunday
Ilya is propped up in bed, studiously reading books of Regina’s while she tackles the housework, scrubbing the concrete to a grimy shine with her hair falling out of a fraying, holey scrap of fabric. He turns the pages of The Picture of Dorian Gray with a strange delight at the scrawled notes in the margins. A neat, uniform Cyrillic like Regina’s hand, just more careful, more precise and less shaky. “Regina, who was Alexsei Zhestakov?”
Her curly mop spikes up in attention as she places the rag in the old, rusted soup pot she facilitates as a reservoir for the murky, sudsy water. “My father,” she smiles, noting the muffling in his voice due to his nonwillingness to put down the book for even the most minor of daily disturbances.
“Your father wasn’t a Saxony?” He asks in confusion.
“No, my mother,” she pauses and stands, imitating the stature of the stiff woman, “Is Emelia Saxony of Dorset, England,” she put on her fakest, highest pitched mockery. Ilya laughs from behind the pages as she crumples to her knees once more.
“Regina Zhestakova.” He muses, pressing the book flat to his lap, “It has a ring to it.”
Regina shakes her head, wringing out the rag she used against the speckled floor. “What did he do?” Ilya interrogates, rearranging himself on the covers.
Regina dips the rag into the water and sloshes it onto the floor. Scrubbing, she tries to recollect her thoughts and form a cohesive answer. “He was a student at the university, he wanted to be a professor himself,” Regina recites quietly, trying to keep herself composed as the floor gets pounded harder and harder with her kneading fists and fingernails scratching up any bit of residue. “He loved my mother and my mother wasn’t so abominable then, so it all worked out.”
“When did he die?” Ilya taps the leather of his Oscar Wilde, though he was genuinely interested, his fingers needed something to do.
“He died in nineteen-oh-five just went out one day and never came back. Later found out he got killed in Bloody Sunday.”
“Oh.”
“Oh.”
Her curly mop spikes up in attention as she places the rag in the old, rusted soup pot she facilitates as a reservoir for the murky, sudsy water. “My father,” she smiles, noting the muffling in his voice due to his nonwillingness to put down the book for even the most minor of daily disturbances.
“Your father wasn’t a Saxony?” He asks in confusion.
“No, my mother,” she pauses and stands, imitating the stature of the stiff woman, “Is Emelia Saxony of Dorset, England,” she put on her fakest, highest pitched mockery. Ilya laughs from behind the pages as she crumples to her knees once more.
“Regina Zhestakova.” He muses, pressing the book flat to his lap, “It has a ring to it.”
Regina shakes her head, wringing out the rag she used against the speckled floor. “What did he do?” Ilya interrogates, rearranging himself on the covers.
Regina dips the rag into the water and sloshes it onto the floor. Scrubbing, she tries to recollect her thoughts and form a cohesive answer. “He was a student at the university, he wanted to be a professor himself,” Regina recites quietly, trying to keep herself composed as the floor gets pounded harder and harder with her kneading fists and fingernails scratching up any bit of residue. “He loved my mother and my mother wasn’t so abominable then, so it all worked out.”
“When did he die?” Ilya taps the leather of his Oscar Wilde, though he was genuinely interested, his fingers needed something to do.
“He died in nineteen-oh-five just went out one day and never came back. Later found out he got killed in Bloody Sunday.”
“Oh.”
“Oh.”