A broad lipped mouth accustomed to grinning looks rather odd when twisted into a grimace. Yellow curls long since gone gray are matted with sweat and shake indignantly with every motion. Ah, and the sweat- how it pours like rivulets of rain down his back, his bare shoulders.
I imagine that he must be a business man, come to this hellishly heated yoga studio to banish the cares of a long day. A day that must never end. Imagine that, can you? A never-ending chunk of darkness and lightness and emails and conferences and throbbing temples. His kind forget the power of ending, so it is good that he is here now.
Chaturanga. We lower ourselves obediently, and I look at his shaking form from beneath heavily lidded eyes. His short, labored breathing disrupts stillness. Idly, I watch his sweat fall from his sides, hitting gray with a pitter-patter.
Like a little boy, his eyes are squeezed so tight that his eyelashes disappear. In the mirror, I count his grandchildren in the lines around his eyes. Many. Many, many kids. A big family. But no wedding band, although perhaps he took it off before the class. There is a white band around his finger.
Down dog. I fancy myself a sleuth now.
Eagle pose. He's shaking so hard it's interfering with my concentration and I feel myself wobble. Suddenly the whole room is wobbling. The instructor notes this with a frown.
I picture his wife, a small woman with deep auburn hair and doe eyes. They met in college, and got divorced when their eldest son graduated high school. She says he never takes time away from his work- he's an accountant- and so he is here now, trying to learn to give time back to himself.
The man grunts loudly, and flops onto his hairy stomach with decidedly little grace. I forget him as soon as my eyes are closed in savasana. Everything is gone.
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