I can do this.
Just as I’m beginning to contemplate what sort of spell I could use to at least save some of my pride, Ash interrupts my internal debate. “You doing alright, big guy?”
I grunt, trying to make what I’m seeing make sense. At the front of the small space, Annemarie announces “sirsasana” before doing some sort of flowy movement in which her legs are straight in the air, her entire body braced on her forearms. What the fuck? Is she made of fluid?
“Perfect,” I grunt.
Okay. I can do this. I have decent arm strength. I can sword fight, for gods sake. I can do this.
“Just… finding enlightenment. Slowly. Painfully.”
I try three times, my lower body unable to escape gravity each time. Does the humidity increase gravity or something? What the hell.
On the fourth attempt, my arms shaking, I manage to get my legs into the air. Before I can get too excited, my arms say “fuck you” to my dignity and give out. As my face meets the entirely sodden mat with what I swear is a splash, I hear Ash gasp.
Ash’s eyes are dancing with glee. “You’re clearly a natural.”
“Thank you,” I mutter, cheek pressed against the moist surface. “That’s the look I was going for.”
At the end, Annemarie dims the lights and tells us to “surrender to the stillness”.
I collapse flat on my back, limbs spread wide. Chest heaving.
Ash lies quietly beside me, her fingers brushing mine in the quiet. The laughter fades, replaced by slow breaths and the rhythmic hum of the fans. The heat feels less like a punishment now and more like a release. My muscles hum, loose and relaxed.
Ash lies next to me, chest heaving. I was so distracted by the heat and discomfort of not being made of rubber that I had somehow missed that under the sweats and a sleeveless shirt she stole from me, she’s wearing a pair of very tiny shorts and a top that hugs her breasts, crisscrossing straps across her back. Her arms are bare, leaving her pale, smooth skin and tattoos on display. Her face glows with health, a thin sheen of sweat covering all of it.
Why is that so attractive?
Entirely too aware that we have an audience and this is not the time or the place to roll over and sink my teeth into her neck, I try to focus on her face.
Her hair is damp, cheeks flushed, eyes shining.There’s peace in her expression. Rare, fragile peace. For that alone, I’d suffer through another hour of hot-stretchy-torture.
“Worth it.”
She blinks, studying my face. “What?”
I smile. “You look relaxed.” I pause. “Is this like the flowers?”
Her brow furrows then clears. “Kind of.” Her lips curve, slowly. “You look relaxed too.”
Maybe I do. Or maybe I’m just delirious. But for once, the tension that has been coiled under my skin like a live wire seems less present.
After class, Annemarie hands me a towel, giggling at my soaked shirt. “So, Mr. Warrior, what did you think?”
I have to say, the fact that her riot of curls is wet with exertion does a lot to mollify my dented dignity. Yes, I may have face planted, but clearly, this is quite the workout for even those who are advanced and know what they’re doing.
I’m still not convinced she’s not some trickster God sent here to test me.
“You’re evil.” I cut a glance at Ash. “Both of you.”
She tosses her towel in the hamper. “I distinctly saw you flexing in the mirror.”
I’m appalled.
“I absolutely was not! I was trying to survive.”
Ash bumps my shoulder as we walk out into the evening air, cool and sweet after the heat. “Next time, we can try meditation.”
