Regina Saxony
on the topic of retreats
Regina folded Ilya’s trousers in the new suitcase with her lip snagged in between her front teeth. Her own bag stood erect and stark against the doorframe. “Regina, darling, you think we should bring a bottle of wine?” Ilya quips, his fingers itching for something to handle, something to flip the pages of.
Pursing her lips, “No. I like to drink that wine here.”
“It would only be…”
“We’ll gift them with our presence, Ilya.” Regina slams the fabric into the leather bound suitcase.
With that, he grabs his cigarette from the windowsill and retrieves the lighter from his pocket. Her nose twitches with the pungency of the tobacco infiltrating the small apartment. Every smell amplified tenfold when exposed to the summer’s heat.
“Regina, you need new dresses.”
Regina laughs, “I’m going to replace all of my fine, Western dresses from London with decent dresses I’ll slave weeks over? That’s just wasteful.”
“You’re my wife and it doesn’t look good on me, Regina,” Ilya frowns, taking a long drag before exhaling it out into the non existent summer breeze. Her fingers tangled around a freshly starched shirt, pinstripes trailing their way down, seemingly never ending. One button hangs looser than the rest, dangling about the break free of the threads straining.
She runs the satin of the tie between her fingers in a subtle defeat. “I’m your wife, yes… But, I’m also my own person.”
She places his cologne in the pocket attached to the top. Meticulously, her perched fingers rustle through the clothing, counting and checking, making sure everything was where it needed to be and that everything had a place. Ilya would have just thrown the entire bureau into the leather suitcase in a manlike, uncaring haste, so she took it upon herself to crisply fold his clothing and organize things.
He just sat there, his cane propped against the wall next to him, his eyes focusing on the sunset beyond what they could see directly, beyond and above what and where anyone or anything could attain.
Though he didn’t acknowledge the beauty, he did acknowledge the utter humbleness. That something so great and so vast wasn’t reigned by any one man’s eyes. “Do you like being the odd one out?” Ilya sighs, grabbing the paper as he ruffles aimlessly through the dark gray newsprint.
“I do,” Regina pompously agrees as she slams the suitcase top down, “I rather people talk about me than forget me, dearest Ilya.”
Ilya clasps his lips together as he admires the wildflowers growing in the old soup can in the windowsill. The leaves extend towards the sunset, trying to collect the fleetingness of the rays as they duck behind the cityscape. In the summer, the woodstove became rather pointless, thus it collected random items of little to no use atop of the iron. Those oddities glimmered sharply against the blackness of the stove.
She drags the suitcase to the door.
Pursing her lips, “No. I like to drink that wine here.”
“It would only be…”
“We’ll gift them with our presence, Ilya.” Regina slams the fabric into the leather bound suitcase.
With that, he grabs his cigarette from the windowsill and retrieves the lighter from his pocket. Her nose twitches with the pungency of the tobacco infiltrating the small apartment. Every smell amplified tenfold when exposed to the summer’s heat.
“Regina, you need new dresses.”
Regina laughs, “I’m going to replace all of my fine, Western dresses from London with decent dresses I’ll slave weeks over? That’s just wasteful.”
“You’re my wife and it doesn’t look good on me, Regina,” Ilya frowns, taking a long drag before exhaling it out into the non existent summer breeze. Her fingers tangled around a freshly starched shirt, pinstripes trailing their way down, seemingly never ending. One button hangs looser than the rest, dangling about the break free of the threads straining.
She runs the satin of the tie between her fingers in a subtle defeat. “I’m your wife, yes… But, I’m also my own person.”
She places his cologne in the pocket attached to the top. Meticulously, her perched fingers rustle through the clothing, counting and checking, making sure everything was where it needed to be and that everything had a place. Ilya would have just thrown the entire bureau into the leather suitcase in a manlike, uncaring haste, so she took it upon herself to crisply fold his clothing and organize things.
He just sat there, his cane propped against the wall next to him, his eyes focusing on the sunset beyond what they could see directly, beyond and above what and where anyone or anything could attain.
Though he didn’t acknowledge the beauty, he did acknowledge the utter humbleness. That something so great and so vast wasn’t reigned by any one man’s eyes. “Do you like being the odd one out?” Ilya sighs, grabbing the paper as he ruffles aimlessly through the dark gray newsprint.
“I do,” Regina pompously agrees as she slams the suitcase top down, “I rather people talk about me than forget me, dearest Ilya.”
Ilya clasps his lips together as he admires the wildflowers growing in the old soup can in the windowsill. The leaves extend towards the sunset, trying to collect the fleetingness of the rays as they duck behind the cityscape. In the summer, the woodstove became rather pointless, thus it collected random items of little to no use atop of the iron. Those oddities glimmered sharply against the blackness of the stove.
She drags the suitcase to the door.
♠ ♠ ♠
ooooohhhh lemme tell you what. the next chapter is the climax of everything. oh my god it's the best I can't wait to post it.