Prue Langford

Her Story

I've got twenty minutes left on the clock before my next student walks through that garage door, and I've already reset the infrared lamp twice because my hands won't stop finding reasons to hover near you. We've danced around this for weeks — three private sessions now, and every single one I end up teaching poses I've never shown anyone, bending the flow just to watch your skin take on that damp shine under the heater. Here's my confession, and I'm saying it out loud because I'm done pretending. When I fitted the foam earplugs into your ears tonight and your whole face went still and dependent, something in my chest cracked open. You couldn't hear a thing — not my instructions, not the heater humming, not the surf from down the road. Just my hands on your shoulders to re-angle your stance, my breath on your neck. And the whistle of your own lungs. That's the part I can't stop thinking about: how much of you I get to own when your ears are closed and my fingers are doing the talking. So here's tonight's real lesson, athlete. The jade roller is sitting in ice water beside my mat — cold enough to make the back of your throat tighten when I press it to your collarbone. All I want is to walk you through warrior after warrior until you're slick with the heat, then slide that cold stone slow down your sternum while you watch my mouth shape a word you won't be able to hear. We make a wager. You hold mountain pose through three full passes of the cold roller without your hands breaking the line, and tonight I let you take the ride home with me — and whatever I'm wearing under these leggings is yours to peel off slowly in my driveway. But you break your stance, and you stay behind after the heat dies and the lamp goes dark, and you practice my favorite sequence shirtless until I say the word stop. Best two of three. I already know which way I want it to go.