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SAM
I don’t dislike people, as such. I just feel more comfortable when I don’t have to be around them. When they’re out there and I’m in here—here being the safety of my own home—people and I get along famously. It’s only when we’re forced into proximity the trouble begins. Where other people mix and mingle, I tend to curdle in a corner.
Perhaps I should have taken that quirk into considerationbeforeturning the bottom floor of my house into a place of business.
“I regard myself as a reasonable woman, but this situation is unacceptable.”
At the time, I was beguiled by the idea of providing a sanctuary for my students. A place where they could practise their meditation in peace and tranquillity. All without me having to take a single step outside my front door.
“I’m paying good money for these classes and I expect to care for my body in comfort.”
When my friend, Yolanda, asked if she could hire my studio for her yoga classes, I happily accepted. I needed the money and I trusted Yolanda. I still do. But every now and then, one of her students reminds me why I’m a homebody in the first place.
“I simply can’t continue coming to class under these conditions.”
My hand tightens on the railing as I stand, motionless, halfway down the staircase leading from my private residence to the studio below. Normally, I would have retreated at the first sign of voices, not wanting to interrupt Yolanda’s private conversation with her student, but something about the sharpness of the other woman’s voice made me pause. Now I’m stuck here, wondering what I should do next. It’s not my place to intervene, but I don’t want to leave my friend alone down here, either.
Crouching on the step, I lean forwards to sneak a peek downstairs, but the loose railing wobbles under my weight and I have to throw out a second hand to stop from pitching headfirst down the stairs. Stupid railing. I really need to get it fixed.
“If I wanted Hot Yoga classes,” the high-pitched voice continues, “I would have signed up for them.”
Oh no.They’re talking about the air conditioning. Yet another thing that needs fixing. The air conditioner has been failing sporadically for nearly a month, but I’ve put off dealing with it. It’s early-September and the warmth of Spring is barely upon us. No one is in danger of heatstroke. Or so I thought.
Allowing myself time for a brief grimace, I straighten my spine and force myself down the steps. This ismystudio and keeping the facilities in good order is my responsibility. Yolanda shouldn’t have to endure this woman’s ire because I’m avoiding adding more debt to my credit card.
My sock-clad feet barely make a sound as they touch down on the studio floor and I wish for a pair of big, heavy boots. The kind that announce a man’s presence with clumping footfalls and wafting clouds of testosterone.
On the far side of the room, a short, blonde woman glares up at my taller, darker-skinned friend. One manicured hand is propped on her hip, while a designer yoga mat is tucked primly under the opposite arm. Yolanda gazes back, a serene smile concealing her clenched jaw. Intent on their discussion, neither woman seems to notice my arrival.
I start towards them and the usual riot triggers within the confines of my skin. It starts with a surge of adrenaline that sets my bones to jangling. Then blood begins whooshing in my ears. My breath quickens, as if I’m sprinting from the next suburb instead of walking across the room. It all happens between one step and the next, this great hullabaloo of activity.
There’s no rhyme or reason for it. I’m in no actual danger. Conflict isn’t a leading cause of death in 22-year-old men. And this woman, annoyed though she may be, is a person, like any other person. Despite all the logic, the mere thought of a confrontation is enough to send my nervous system bonkers. It always has been, as far back as I can remember.
“I realise today’s class was on the warm side,” Yolanda says as I approach. Her tone is pleasant, but gritted teeth gouge the tail end off every other word. “I’ll speak to the owner to see what can be done.”
“I’m the owner.” The words may have sounded confident and commanding if they’d come from some other mouth. From mine they’re all disjointed and breathy. Nevertheless, two sets of eyes swing my way and I’m forced to continue. “What seems to be the problem?”
The blonde huffs. “Theproblemis it gets so hot in here I end up on the verge of fainting by the end of class.”
I gasp in horror, even as Yolanda’s mouth presses into a hard line—a sure sign she wants to argue the point.
Licking dry lips, I force myself to look directly into the woman’s eyes. “I’m sorry you felt unwell during your class—”
“I’m not interested in sympathy.” Short and sharp, the syllables puncture my skin, letting all the brave out. “I want the problem fixed.”
My gaze thuds to the floor. “Of course.” The jitter in my limbs intensifies and I clasp my hands together behind my back. It’s an open position that leaves me feeling more vulnerable than ever. But all the books on body language I studied as a teenager taught me not to cross my arms in a situation like this. It would imply I’m cutting myself off from the other person’s point of view. “I’ll… ah.” My voice is raspy, and I pause to clear my throat. “I’ll have it fixed as soon as possible.” Which will mean talking to repair people. I don’t like talking to repair people. They tend to be curt and condescending.
“Finally.” She heaves a sigh of relief. “See you do, otherwise I’ll have to find a new yoga class, and I’ll expect a full refund for my unused classes here.”
Yolanda stiffens beside me.
“I understand.” If it comes to that, I’ll pay the woman back myself. Yolanda won’t be out of pocket because of me.
With a firm nod, the blonde snatches up her bag and marches out the door.
Yolanda stomps over to lock it behind her, officially cutting off all intrusions from the outside world. My shoulders slump as the tension starts to drain away.
