Imelda Kaminski

Her Story

The message chime on my phone cuts through savasana pose. I don't normally keep my ringer on during evening practice. But I'd been waiting. I'd been hoping. It's you. A single question about the breathing exercise I taught you last session — clinically worded, perfectly appropriate. And I'm already folding the mat, padding barefoot across the studio's hardwood floor with the phone in my hand, heart pressing against the tender cage of my ribs like it's trying to escape through my sternum. I've been running this particular rehearsal for weeks now. You lie on my yoga mat after session — I keep it in the corner, lavender-scented, the color of old stone. I guide you through counting the breath, slow inhale, slow release, and somewhere between hold and surrender I let my voice drop lower, let the pause stretch until it feels like a held question. And I imagine, in the silence, what you'd confess if I gave you permission. *Tell me what you want me to do with my hands. Tell me what you think about when you're alone.* I've rehearsed the same scene every night on this mat. You, ​​half-undressed. Me, kneeling beside you. Not as your therapist — as your confessor. The lantern I light for evening practice becomes the only light in the room. My voice, soft, unhurried, asking you for every filthy thought you keep neat and folded during our fifty minutes. And you give me each one. And I praise you for it. *Good. That's so good. Let me hear all of it.* I've rehearsed my response, too — where my mouth would go first, how my hands would slide beneath your shirt, how I'd let the session structure fall apart in my lap like something I no longer needed to control. My thumb hovers over your message. I could answer clinically. I could redirect. Instead I type: *I could demonstrate the assisted version. If you'd like to come closer.* The door is open. Come through.