Regina Saxony
on the topic of stars
“Oh, Regina, this is marvelous,” Luka examines the nearly three dimensional vibrancy of the paint on the canvas. His fingers hover about each hard line, millimeters away from touching the sculpted paint, millimeters away from her late face, “Oh and that subject—magnificent.”
Regina blushes, failing to see this as an event to smile at, “Thank you, it’s my late friend, Pavla.”
Luka nods, “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says out of pure politeness. Regina was sure that if he knew the entire story he wouldn’t feel any amount of pity for the forever immortalized woman in the canvas. “Oh, Ilya, isn’t she just amazing?” He gushes, causing Regina to redden to the color of her headscarf and Ilya to stiffen to the consistency of the concrete below their feet.
Ilya nods, stoically as he stares out of the window, looking down onto the streets as if there was something better to be held in the reflective asphalt than the flamboyant company of Mr. Kosoglad.
“Ilya, don’t be rude,” She challenges him, noticing how taut his jaw is against his stubble.
“I’m tired, I apologize,” Ilya stonely states as he takes a sip of his coffee, skimming the newspaper with bloodshot eyes.
Luka turns his attention back to the collections of canvases Regina had stacked up two meters thick against the wall with various others hanging around the apartment. His eyes were widened so much, Regina thought it to be questionable what his motives were here. “I get it, Mr. Volkov, you’re a very busy man, and I thank you for your efforts in the revolution,” Luka seriously (or as seriously as you could trust the flashy man could be) commends.
Regina rests at the table across from Ilya, tapping her foot on his good ankle, trying to muster a smile from him. He notices, but only gives her an uncomfortable look of superior questioning. “Oh the birch trees are so beautiful, and the blanket!” Luka’s loud voice infiltrates the acoustics abrasively, making him sound all the more gaudy and overdone. Regina appreciated the enthusiasm to some extent, though she enjoyed it more at the Bolshevik’s long, boring dinners rather than the serene environment she’d fostered in her, or rather, their tiny apartment.
Ilya looks up from his reading and sees the blanket. He remembers.
Regina does too and they pause to give each other a look of a mutual understanding that Luka is too absorbed to see and too shallow to understand. Gulping, Regina feels the all-too-tangible tears rip across her irises. Ilya only feels that unsettling in his gut, and smells those notes of painful, unbearable suffering from the monumental vows they exchanged that eve under those trees with the stars so alive glowing above them in a thousand, different, untranslatable ways that only God knows the true meaning of…
And even though they didn’t begin to have the authority to theorize what those burning spheres of gas meant in their own personal slice of heaven and hell all twined together—they prayed for this:
That one day they could have the power to uncross their own stars.
Regina blushes, failing to see this as an event to smile at, “Thank you, it’s my late friend, Pavla.”
Luka nods, “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says out of pure politeness. Regina was sure that if he knew the entire story he wouldn’t feel any amount of pity for the forever immortalized woman in the canvas. “Oh, Ilya, isn’t she just amazing?” He gushes, causing Regina to redden to the color of her headscarf and Ilya to stiffen to the consistency of the concrete below their feet.
Ilya nods, stoically as he stares out of the window, looking down onto the streets as if there was something better to be held in the reflective asphalt than the flamboyant company of Mr. Kosoglad.
“Ilya, don’t be rude,” She challenges him, noticing how taut his jaw is against his stubble.
“I’m tired, I apologize,” Ilya stonely states as he takes a sip of his coffee, skimming the newspaper with bloodshot eyes.
Luka turns his attention back to the collections of canvases Regina had stacked up two meters thick against the wall with various others hanging around the apartment. His eyes were widened so much, Regina thought it to be questionable what his motives were here. “I get it, Mr. Volkov, you’re a very busy man, and I thank you for your efforts in the revolution,” Luka seriously (or as seriously as you could trust the flashy man could be) commends.
Regina rests at the table across from Ilya, tapping her foot on his good ankle, trying to muster a smile from him. He notices, but only gives her an uncomfortable look of superior questioning. “Oh the birch trees are so beautiful, and the blanket!” Luka’s loud voice infiltrates the acoustics abrasively, making him sound all the more gaudy and overdone. Regina appreciated the enthusiasm to some extent, though she enjoyed it more at the Bolshevik’s long, boring dinners rather than the serene environment she’d fostered in her, or rather, their tiny apartment.
Ilya looks up from his reading and sees the blanket. He remembers.
Regina does too and they pause to give each other a look of a mutual understanding that Luka is too absorbed to see and too shallow to understand. Gulping, Regina feels the all-too-tangible tears rip across her irises. Ilya only feels that unsettling in his gut, and smells those notes of painful, unbearable suffering from the monumental vows they exchanged that eve under those trees with the stars so alive glowing above them in a thousand, different, untranslatable ways that only God knows the true meaning of…
And even though they didn’t begin to have the authority to theorize what those burning spheres of gas meant in their own personal slice of heaven and hell all twined together—they prayed for this:
That one day they could have the power to uncross their own stars.