Regina Saxony
on the topic of wives
“I should watch you paint sometime,” Luka swirls his wine with the flick of an uncaring wrist. His collarbones were flushed with the telltale signs of intoxication, “You should really have a drink,” Luka loudly proclaims. Everyone was engaged in a quiet conversation, the dainty sipping of alcohol and nibbling of light foods, and Luka had to interrupt that, shining attention on Ilya, Regina, and himself—that dazzling, exuding self, Regina loved and hated all in the same moment. “Excuse me, gaspazha, can I get something to drink for this lovely woman right here.”
“Mr. Kosoglad, I don’t drink,” she uncomfortably giggles, trying to hide her blush and trying to not feel the radiating heat of Ilya’s fury.
He laughs, following up her comment with a slurred, “Well then definitely get her a drink.”
Ilya clears his throat and a round of men nearing the end of the table erupt in cheers. It’s a boisterous, drunken laughter of the young men that had returned from the war or had escaped from Siberian camps, as impossible as that struck her, they said it happened with flashy grins and pointing fingers. “My wife doesn’t want a drink,” Ilya takes her hand in his, placing it on the table as if to claim her.
“You look like a cognac girl.”
Without thinking Regina perks up, “I do like a nice cognac,” she speaks in an excited tone. Ilya’s grip tightens painfully so around her aching joints.
He smiles, his eyes crinkling, “Well then let’s not waste time, a glass of cognac please,” Kosoglad jovially orders, sending the server away to the liquor cabinet.
“Regina, dear, a word,” Ilya cuts with his words, searing Regina’s gleeful bliss as he places his napkin on the dark oak of the table extending endlessly. Regina does the same and excuses herself, holding
Ilya’s free arm as he rises from the chair, following him to a dimmed corridor off to the right.
His eyes are fierier than the vodka burning the throats of the politicians dining. Nostrils flare in a threatening way and Regina’s soul flakes away like the tops of baked pastries under glass covers protecting them. “You know how much this means to me,” Ilya frowns, trying to keep his voice low so as to dissuade eavesdroppers.
Regina very courteously nods, a very ladylike demeanor takes over her and she understands what she has to force herself to be in front of these equally fake people. Hesitating, she speaks in a shockingly poised demeanor Emelia Saxony of Dorset, Englad would be increasingly proud of, “I am not a revolutionary’s wife. I am Regina Volkova, wife of Ilya,” she has this newly developed diplomatic chime to her poignant shrills.
Ilya smiles briefly, smoothing back his coarse hair with his palm. His eyes sparkle like they did when they saw Regina that first time on Christmas Eve and it broke Regina’s heart. Smashing the thousands of fragments already residing, poking at her ribcage and tendons with a searing dismay, it was hell tenfold in the corridor. “I’m not asking you to be anyone else, Regina… I’m just asking you to help me out here.”
Placing a fickle finger on her painted lips, her eyes drag to the ceiling in a mockery of deep thought.
“Oh, so I should giggle and talk about my Borshct recipe and how I get a perfectly moist cake every time?” Regina taunts, flipping her plain gray dress around in a rude, immature showcase of the truth.
“Talk about how my husband dumbs down Lenin for me and taught me the abridged version of Marxism!”
“Stop it!” Ilya’s eyes are wide and for a few moments, Regina thinks he is about to strike her. Instead of flinching, she stares him straight in those crazed blue eyes, daring him to even think about disarraying a single coifed hair on her head, jeering at him with a bullies smirk as if to say, “Do it.”
He doesn’t, and Regina sighs in a defeat, hating to see him so worked up about the entireity of the fiasco she had contributed to. “Fine then, Ilya. I’ll go back in, I’ll fold my little hands on the table, I’ll eat some food and sip some of the cognac and be polite. But know that I will hate every single second of it.”
“I love you,” he mutters with the thickest sarcastic intonations that irked her nerves even more so.
“Love you more,” she frowns.
“Mr. Kosoglad, I don’t drink,” she uncomfortably giggles, trying to hide her blush and trying to not feel the radiating heat of Ilya’s fury.
He laughs, following up her comment with a slurred, “Well then definitely get her a drink.”
Ilya clears his throat and a round of men nearing the end of the table erupt in cheers. It’s a boisterous, drunken laughter of the young men that had returned from the war or had escaped from Siberian camps, as impossible as that struck her, they said it happened with flashy grins and pointing fingers. “My wife doesn’t want a drink,” Ilya takes her hand in his, placing it on the table as if to claim her.
“You look like a cognac girl.”
Without thinking Regina perks up, “I do like a nice cognac,” she speaks in an excited tone. Ilya’s grip tightens painfully so around her aching joints.
He smiles, his eyes crinkling, “Well then let’s not waste time, a glass of cognac please,” Kosoglad jovially orders, sending the server away to the liquor cabinet.
“Regina, dear, a word,” Ilya cuts with his words, searing Regina’s gleeful bliss as he places his napkin on the dark oak of the table extending endlessly. Regina does the same and excuses herself, holding
Ilya’s free arm as he rises from the chair, following him to a dimmed corridor off to the right.
His eyes are fierier than the vodka burning the throats of the politicians dining. Nostrils flare in a threatening way and Regina’s soul flakes away like the tops of baked pastries under glass covers protecting them. “You know how much this means to me,” Ilya frowns, trying to keep his voice low so as to dissuade eavesdroppers.
Regina very courteously nods, a very ladylike demeanor takes over her and she understands what she has to force herself to be in front of these equally fake people. Hesitating, she speaks in a shockingly poised demeanor Emelia Saxony of Dorset, Englad would be increasingly proud of, “I am not a revolutionary’s wife. I am Regina Volkova, wife of Ilya,” she has this newly developed diplomatic chime to her poignant shrills.
Ilya smiles briefly, smoothing back his coarse hair with his palm. His eyes sparkle like they did when they saw Regina that first time on Christmas Eve and it broke Regina’s heart. Smashing the thousands of fragments already residing, poking at her ribcage and tendons with a searing dismay, it was hell tenfold in the corridor. “I’m not asking you to be anyone else, Regina… I’m just asking you to help me out here.”
Placing a fickle finger on her painted lips, her eyes drag to the ceiling in a mockery of deep thought.
“Oh, so I should giggle and talk about my Borshct recipe and how I get a perfectly moist cake every time?” Regina taunts, flipping her plain gray dress around in a rude, immature showcase of the truth.
“Talk about how my husband dumbs down Lenin for me and taught me the abridged version of Marxism!”
“Stop it!” Ilya’s eyes are wide and for a few moments, Regina thinks he is about to strike her. Instead of flinching, she stares him straight in those crazed blue eyes, daring him to even think about disarraying a single coifed hair on her head, jeering at him with a bullies smirk as if to say, “Do it.”
He doesn’t, and Regina sighs in a defeat, hating to see him so worked up about the entireity of the fiasco she had contributed to. “Fine then, Ilya. I’ll go back in, I’ll fold my little hands on the table, I’ll eat some food and sip some of the cognac and be polite. But know that I will hate every single second of it.”
“I love you,” he mutters with the thickest sarcastic intonations that irked her nerves even more so.
“Love you more,” she frowns.