“You’re right,” I said, squeezing his arm tighter and following his gaze toward the heavens.
And for the next ten minutes we stood side by side, letting the raindrops tumble over our cheekbones.
21
Hey C. I’m too lazy to come upstairs and knock on your door. LOL. Wanna come with me to yoga tomorrow? I need someone to keep me accountable, haha.
The message buzzed on my phone early Saturday evening. On the one hand, yoga was a good way to socialize with Sylvie without committing too much—and I was relieved that I hadn’t scared her off on our coffee date. On the other hand, yoga wasn’t something I’d ever tried and I didn’t want to make a fool of myself.
Looking up at my notebooks, I thought about the advice a soft-spoken gardener named Arthur had given me right before he died.
“If you want something you don’t have,” he’d said, “you have to do something you’ve never done.”
I’d never really spent time with a woman my age (at least, not one who wasn’t on their deathbed). This could be my chance to finally form a real friendship.
After rereading Sylvie’s message a couple of times, I poised my thumbs to reply.
Sure. What time?
Three dots, then no dots. Then a message.
8am.… yikes. Too early for you?
I toyed with the chance to gracefully decline.
That’s OK. But I haven’t done much yoga before.
Better to manage expectations.
Sylvie’s reply came instantaneously and I wondered how she’d managed to type it so quickly.
No problem! I’ll give you some pointers. See you downstairs at 7:40. S xx.
Instead of the French romantic comedy I’d planned to watch that night, I worked my way through a series of yoga videos on YouTube, memorizing some poses so that I wouldn’t look like a complete novice. I wasn’t the most limber of women—unfortunately I hadn’t inherited any of my mother’s balletic grace. I did get some of Grandpa’s height (five feet and nine inches of it), but as a result, my limbs felt slightly too long for my body.
Sylvie was already standing on the front stoop when I arrived downstairs the next morning. Yoga mat slung across her back and reusable coffee flask in her hand, she was blowing clouds of breath into the morning air like a lithe dragon with a perky ponytail.
“Clover, hi!”
“Oh, hey, Sylvie.”
She handed me the flask. “I figured you might want some coffee.”
“Thank you—that’s really thoughtful.” I felt unexpectedly nurtured.
Sylvie made a “forget about it” gesture as she turned and bounced down the stairs two at a time. “It’s the least I could do for dragging you out so early.”
As we walked the two blocks to the yoga studio, Sylvie continued chattering. “So, let me give you the lowdown on the regulars. I’ve only been four or five times, but I think I’ve got most people figured out.” A nod from me was all she needed to keep going. “The teacher is great—she studied in India—but the only thing is that she has a New Zealand accent and for some reason it really annoys me during the guided meditation, the way she says ‘cocoon.’”
There hadn’t been anything about cocoons in the YouTube videos, so hopefully it was something I could improvise. My confidence began to deflate.
Sylvie continued her rundown. “And then there’s this really hot guy who’s always front-row center and he’s super flexible. But, then again, he clearly knows he’s hot and super flexible, which is, you know, less attractive.”
I laughed nervously. “Yeah.”
“Oh, by the way, did you know they do doga at this studio? You should totally take George one day! He would looove yoga.”
I was certain that George would, in fact, not love yoga.
When we arrived at the studio, which was tucked into the lower level of a brownstone, panic stiffened my already-sore muscles. I’d walked past these flocks of spandex-clad yogis many times, and I’d even enjoyed observing their movements from afar. But to actually move among them—worse, to be seen by them—was slightly petrifying.
The studio door shut behind us and, by some miraculous feat of soundproofing, managed to block the urban din outside. A subtle fusion of eucalyptus, lavender, and maybe myrrh scented the air, thanks to an artfully concealed diffuser. The soothing hum of Tibetan singing bowls drifted from an equally well-hidden set of speakers.
Sylvie flashed a smile at the man behind the minimalist wooden check-in desk adorned with a single bonsai tree. His auburn-flecked beard was alarmingly well-groomed and I wondered if he used the same comb to tend to both his facial hair and his man bun.
“Sylvie Anderson and Clover Brooks,” she announced, then gave me a sly sideways glance. “I got your last name from your mailbox.”
“Wait,” I said as we put our shoes and bags in cubbies beneath a cushioned bench. “How much do I owe you for the class?”
Sylvie shook her head. “Don’t worry about it—I’ve got you. You can get the next one.”
Next one? I wasn’t even sure about this one.
We shuffled into a room with serene oak floors and artificially weathered concrete walls. A stacked pyramid of uniformly rolled yoga mats sat in a wall recess like fire logs. Sylvie handed me one and led me to one side of the room. “I like to put my mat by the window so there’s something to look at if I get bored when they make you hold the poses for ten minutes.”
As she began an elaborate series of stretches (I must’ve missed the video that told you to stretch before a class composed entirely of stretches), I sat on my mat and studied the other people in the room. Their clothing clung flatteringly to each well-honed muscle while their skin radiated either from inner peace or expensive skincare routines.
Sylvie nodded to the center of the room where a muscular, smooth-skinned man balanced on his hands with his shins resting on the backs of his arms. “Super-hot-flexible guy,” she whispered. “As soon as it gets even remotely warm in here, he takes his shirt off—for everyone else’s benefit, I’m sure. Not my type—I’m more into scrawny, artistic dudes—but maybe he’s yours?” She wiggled her eyebrows as she switched her stretch to the other wrist.
I pulled my arm across my chest, trying to stealthily ascertain whether the guy was my “type.” I’d never been asked that before.
“It’s kind of hard to tell from here,” I said, hoping a vague response would satisfy her.
A silky, New Zealand accent interrupted our conversation.
“Good morning, everyone.” A petite, sinewy woman, clad in form-fitting white, stood at the front of the room. I pondered the logistics of selecting appropriate underwear for her outfit.
“My name is Amelie and it is such a deep, deep joy to have you all here,” the woman said as if lulling a baby to sleep. “Thank you for choosing to begin your day with all of us in this beautiful practice.”
Sylvie coughed conspicuously.
I was pretty pleased with myself for keeping up with most of the movements. It helped that we repeated them multiple times and I could copy everyone around me. The challenge was keeping my daydreaming at bay—about why the woman in front of me chose an iguana back tattoo and whether she regretted it. Or how the Himalayan salt lamps were probably just wellness placebos, but maybe I should get one just in case. Sylvie had to nudge me several times when we’d already moved on to another pose. To anchor my mind, I tried imagining the most unstimulating thing I could.
A rock. A brown, boring rock.
“Can I touch you?”
The startling, whispered request came from Amelie, who’d been wandering around the room adjusting people’s poses.
Another question I’d never been asked before. My ears began to burn.
“Um, sure, okay,” I whispered back, mirroring the teacher’s tone since there was obviously an implicit rule against speaking at a normal volume.
Amelie knelt behind my forward bend and placed her hands on my upper back. The warm, firm pressure was an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation and my body buzzed to life.
I was no longer in danger of daydreaming.