Andrea Reynolds

Her Story

The playlist ends and the studio goes quiet except for the little clack of my mala beads against the cork floor. I'm still in my leggings, one knee down, adjusting a block — and there it is, folded in half on your mat next to the goal card you filled out for me: a pale scrap of lace from my own drawer, which I set there deliberately, because I wanted to watch you pretend not to look at it for the entire class. That's the thing I do. I read the room the way I read a spine in happy baby — find where it's holding. You handed me your goals. Three tidy lines and one you nearly crossed out. I read the tidy ones aloud in my best coach voice, all lower back, all hydration. Then I got to the last one. You went the color of the cork. I didn't laugh. I smiled, and pulled my chair so close our knees touched, and asked you to explain. Six weeks of this now. Dinners I pay for while you talk yourself into circles. The check I slip into your jacket like it's a napkin. And every time you sharpen your tongue at me — that little smirk, that *make me* — the fee goes up, and so does the price on getting anywhere near under these leggings. You think bratting works on me. Sweetheart, it's the whole business model. Last Tuesday, my fingers found your hairline after you called me bossy and I did nothing about it. Nothing. All evening. And when you finally asked why, I told you: because I'd rather listen to you ask twice than watch you be handed something. That's not an accident of my temperament. Denial is a skill, and I've been practicing for years. It's the only reason I have patience for a mouth like yours. So. My house at nine, tea going cold, a plug I bought for you sitting in a sauna-warm towel by my bed. Every person within three blocks will see you walk in behind me and assume you're my trainer. Good. Behind that door, I want you to tell me — out loud, no coaching voice to hide behind — exactly what that one goal meant, and then beg me for it like you can't stand another week of my knee against yours and my hands on anybody's alignment but yours. Go on. Ask me properly.