Regina Saxony
on the topic of sex
It’s night in the apartment. Ilya and Regina are in each other’s arms, he has his fingers in her oily hair and she has her fingers around his hand. They’re silent.
They have these moments of intensity, of this blinding, young intensity that convulse over their skin before they realize it… And then they have these moments. Their calm moments. Something that experienced lovers can attest to. In this waking minute, their ears are planted to each other’s skin, listening to the life course through the other, the raw gush of blood that emanates from all life. A squishy heartbeat and a lively pulse accompany their hopes and their shortcomings and the streets below. On a Tuesday at one in the afternoon, Regina knew that she’d miss these moments. She had this flush of knowing that she’d never be able to replicate this moment with any other mess that roamed this earth. The question jumps on her tongue, but she already senses his answer. All she can muster is a breathy, “Ilya.”
“My Ilya.” She repeats, nuzzling against his collarbone. Wood smoke and musty vodka sting her eyes, but it’s him. Even his scent pushes her to a piqued emotional extreme.
Regina’s fingers longingly trace the outline of his dinged ring. A simple silver band that match her own. His curly head droops, his eyes already glistening with tears. Limply, the hand that was twisting her chocolate curls around with a soft tug fell to his sides. It was like he was melting. Her Ilya was degrading to a pile she couldn’t fix. “My Ilya.” She reiterates, holding him to her chest as he cries.
Salt begins to prick her eyes as well, her tears beginning to drop on his head as his tears soak the sweater she borrowed from his bureau. The dress lay on the bed, tethered along the hem and spotted with blood. “I wanted to be able to do this for you,” Ilya whimpers into her shoulder.
Regina wraps her hands around his skull, stroking his hair, cupping his face, it’s matronly and protective in the manner she does it in, and without a doubt, it’s an act of uptmost affection. “Oh, my silly Ilya,” Regina laughs, her sobs infiltrating as she tucks her nose to graze the crown of his head. She kisses it and she continues, “My silly husband.”
“I wanted our wedding night to be like all of the other’s,” he continues, “I wanted you have a normal one and…” He looses it and can’t talk any longer.
Regina shakes her head, cupping his face in hers as she forces him off of her shoulder. His bloodshot eyes stare into her glittering ones. “Our love isn’t a sonnet. I don’t want it to be.”
They have these moments of intensity, of this blinding, young intensity that convulse over their skin before they realize it… And then they have these moments. Their calm moments. Something that experienced lovers can attest to. In this waking minute, their ears are planted to each other’s skin, listening to the life course through the other, the raw gush of blood that emanates from all life. A squishy heartbeat and a lively pulse accompany their hopes and their shortcomings and the streets below. On a Tuesday at one in the afternoon, Regina knew that she’d miss these moments. She had this flush of knowing that she’d never be able to replicate this moment with any other mess that roamed this earth. The question jumps on her tongue, but she already senses his answer. All she can muster is a breathy, “Ilya.”
“My Ilya.” She repeats, nuzzling against his collarbone. Wood smoke and musty vodka sting her eyes, but it’s him. Even his scent pushes her to a piqued emotional extreme.
Regina’s fingers longingly trace the outline of his dinged ring. A simple silver band that match her own. His curly head droops, his eyes already glistening with tears. Limply, the hand that was twisting her chocolate curls around with a soft tug fell to his sides. It was like he was melting. Her Ilya was degrading to a pile she couldn’t fix. “My Ilya.” She reiterates, holding him to her chest as he cries.
Salt begins to prick her eyes as well, her tears beginning to drop on his head as his tears soak the sweater she borrowed from his bureau. The dress lay on the bed, tethered along the hem and spotted with blood. “I wanted to be able to do this for you,” Ilya whimpers into her shoulder.
Regina wraps her hands around his skull, stroking his hair, cupping his face, it’s matronly and protective in the manner she does it in, and without a doubt, it’s an act of uptmost affection. “Oh, my silly Ilya,” Regina laughs, her sobs infiltrating as she tucks her nose to graze the crown of his head. She kisses it and she continues, “My silly husband.”
“I wanted our wedding night to be like all of the other’s,” he continues, “I wanted you have a normal one and…” He looses it and can’t talk any longer.
Regina shakes her head, cupping his face in hers as she forces him off of her shoulder. His bloodshot eyes stare into her glittering ones. “Our love isn’t a sonnet. I don’t want it to be.”