Page 139 of Wells

“I know.”

We move through the rest of the class in quiet. The sun rises higher, turning the wet grass bright. People around us breathe and stretch and laugh softly when their bodies refuse instructions. The city wakes beyond the trees, but in here, the morning stays quiet.

At the end, we lie back on our mats. I stare up through the branches while the instructor leads us into stillness. Cera’s hand rests on the mat a few inches from mine. Close enough to touch, not close enough to claim.

I don't move.

That might be the hardest thing I do all morning.

When class ends, people roll up mats and drift toward the path. Cera stays seated, legs crossed, face turned toward the sun. I sit up beside her and reach for my water bottle.

“That was not terrible,” I say.

She opens one eye. “It's a powerful way to start a Sunday morning, right?”

The best start to this Sunday is seeing her, but I don't say that.

“It was.”

“You almost fell over during tree pose.”

“Trees fall all the time. It’s natural.”

“Usually after storms or disease.”

“I’m choosing not to take that personally.”

She laughs, and the sound moves through me before I can brace for it. I've missed that laugh in ways that make no sense, since before I knew the real name behind it, since after I lost every right to ask for it.

Now she gives it to me in the morning light, freely, and I don't know how to hold something that precious without gripping too hard.

So I don't grip. I take a sip of my water and let her sit.

After a minute, she pushes to her feet. “There’s one thing I’ve been working on. Can I show you?”

I stand with her. “Am I about to witness advanced suffering?”

“Possibly. It isn't graceful yet.”

She sets her water aside and steps onto the center of her mat. “It’s a dancer’s pose. I can do it, but I’m trying to hold it longer without fighting my own body the whole time.”

I know enough now to picture it. One foot grounded, the other lifted behind her, one hand holding the ankle as her body opens forward.

She gets her body positioned. It's beautiful when she does it. Everything she does on a mat is beautiful.

She looks at me. “Can you stand in front of me?”

My heart trips.

I do exactly what she asks without answering with words. I stand a few feet in front of her with my hands loose at my sides.

She studies me for a second, and I understand the test before she says a word. It isn't whether I can hold her. It's whether I can wait.

She lifts her right foot behind her and catches it with her right hand. Her left arm reaches toward me, palm open.

“Just give me your hand,” she says.

I raise my hand, palm up, and stop halfway between us. She's the one who closes the distance. Her fingers slide over mine, and my whole body goes quiet with the effort of being worthy of that choice.