Page 91 of Wells

I open my eyes and look around. Most people have their palms pressed together in front of their chests. I mimic the position. I thought yoga was supposed to be the opposite of stressful.

My shoulders hike up near my ears. Cera leans over and lightly touches my shoulder without breaking her own pose.

Lowering my shoulders surprisingly eases tension, relaxing me some.

I glance over at Cera. Her movements are fluid, each shift precise and controlled. She catches me watching.

"Breathe into it. Go at your own pace."

I exhale. My back loosens, not much, but enough.

We move into downward dog. Marla explains the position. I push up and immediately my hamstrings burn. My heels don't come anywhere near touching the ground, hovering about two inches off the grass.

Cera walks her hands back and stands, moving into the next position before Marla even finishes the cue. I stay where I am, stuck in this inverted angle, my arms shaking.

"Wells."

I turn my head. She crouches beside me, one hand on my shoulder blade.

"Bend your knees. It's not a test."

I bend my knees. The pressure eases. I can breathe again.

"Better?"

"Survivable."

She grins and moves back to her mat.

I spend the next stretch half a beat behind everyone, copying whoever my eyes land on from that particular vantage point, while Cera flows through it like her body already knows the shape

My hand drifts toward my pocket. I stop halfway, fingers brushing the fabric where my cigarettes would be if I had brought them. I leave my hand there for a second, then drop it back to my side.

Marla tells us to lie on our backs. I lower myself onto the mat, the grass soft beneath the thin layer of foam. The sun warms my face. I close my eyes. My breath slows. The portable speaker hums a low melody that is quite soothing. No one is watching me. No one needs a decision

Cera shifts beside me. Her hand brushes mine on the grass between our mats. She doesn't pull away. We lie here like this for several minutes, the music, the grass, her hand.

Everyone rolls their mats while I stand and try to figure out how to fold mine without it buckling at the edges. My legs are looser, almost foreign, and the sweat cooling on the back of my neck is unfamiliar but not unwelcome. The morning air smells cleaner after moving in it.

"You survived."

I glance at her. She tucks her mat under her arm and pushes a strand of damp hair off her forehead.

"I am considering requesting a second opinion."

"You did better than most on your first try. I'm not kidding. People dismiss yoga as easy, but it's not."

"Better than most, huh? I'm not sure that's a full compliment, but I'll take it."

She grins and starts walking. I follow, the mat still crooked under my arm.

We head toward Magazine Street, where Cera mentioned a juice place three blocks from the rec center. The neighborhood shifts as we walk. The painted cottages near the park give way to older commercial buildings with rusted awnings and faded signs. A barber shop with taped-over windows sits beside a consignment store that doesn't look open. The sidewalk cracks under our feet.

My cigarettes are in the car where I left them before class, and somewhere past the second block I realize I haven't wanted one. I add it to the list of things about this morning that don't belong to the man I was a month ago.

Cera stops in front of an old Gothic-style building. It looks like it was a warehouse once, from back when the river still ran this whole stretch. Sitting vacant among houses and smaller businesses, it definitely stands out.

It's two stories, brick, with tall front windows hidden behind plywood sheets. Graffiti tags spiral across the lower half of the facade. The upper windows are intact but filthy. A for-lease sign tilts in one corner.