Regina Saxony

Regina holds his hand as they walk together near the docks. They were close enough to view the sea, but not close enough to be rendered deaf by the roaring of boats and the water. Ilya’s rough wool coat brushes against her delicate wrist, created an uncomfortable rash of sorts that was numbed by the cold. Her floral silk scarf captures her flyaway corkscrews into a manageable bundle atop of her head. She grasps the knot with one hand so that the expensive luxury will not simply sashay with the brutal winds. “I don’t like that thing in your hair.” Ilya grimaces.

“Well it’s a good thing I don’t live to please you,” she sharply replies, her pointed features seemingly drawing further out in defiance. “Scarves are all of the rage,” she quips in a mocking, posh voice.

Ilya is overcome with happiness. His beam causes his aquamarine tinted eyes to narrow into the tiniest of slits. The birds flit around from tree to tree, perching and singing to the white splotched sky in a glorious shrilling manner… “I love you, Regina Saxony.”

“No you don’t.” She laughs, trying to find the exact point on the horizon where the sea melts into the sky. She couldn’t decipher it, but she was sure the gulls above the rest of them, resting on the masts of the luxury sailboats, knew. With their repetitive calls and swooping wings, Regina was absolutely sure in her rare light hearted lens of the world that afternoon. “You don’t love me,” She chides again.

“But I do.” He sighs, removing his focus from the lark to her. He remembered when he first saw her.

She’d gotten bloodstains on her bright yellow galoshes and her mother was dragging her along in the wet snow, the little girl’s tights a sopping mess. When she was a small girl, she tended to walk with her head down, plopping up and down with her footfalls in a childish charm. Now, Regina walked confidently, with her shoulders back and her back arched with a certain femininity like her mother taught her.

And he hoped one day he’d get to see her hunched over. A babushka full of wisdom. His babushka.

But these were needless hopes and dreams. “Why do you love me, Ilya?” She frowns, squeezing his hand to interrupt his raging thoughts.

“Because you’re just so, carefree.”

“I am not carefree.” She pouts.

Ilya blushes, his head racing with the insecurities of a young man talking to a young woman—a very pretty (and inherently volatile) woman at that. “No, no, I meant it as… Uh… You don’t take everything seriously.”

Regina ignores his speech and a rosy blush begins to envelop on the apples of her cheeks. Her eyes dart from lamp post to lamp post, each sturdy and intricate with their painstaking swirls, each lamp post beginning to peel and rust. The concrete on which they walked on was chipping and cracked.
The grass was barely there anymore and everything was so depressingly dead and red tinted. The front lines weren’t the only place where things decayed and hopes fell apart. “I love you too.” She whispers, trying to scope out anything that remained beautiful. Even the lux overindulgence of the Winter Palace with its mint paint and ornate white fixtures was a bore.

She wanted what they took from her. She wanted St. Petersburg. Not Petrograd.