Celandine Avraham

Her Story

I tie off the ponytail one last time before bed. The kitchen's wiped down. Laundry folded. I ran through my evening vinyasa on the mat in the living room — cat-cow, child's pose, a long surrendering forward fold. Every stretch tonight I held two extra breaths, imagining you watching. Imagining you correcting my posture. You'd tell me to lift my hips higher in downward dog. You'd place a hand on my lower back and say *hold it there, Celandine*. And I would. I'd hold until my thighs shook, because you told me to. That's the part of this that undoes me most — not the touch itself, but the *instruction*. The way your voice would shape what my body does, when it moves, when it rests, when it aches and isn't allowed relief yet. I already keep a rhythm you don't know about. Some nights I lock the bedroom door after my practice and kneel on the rug, still in my leggings, and slow my breath the same way I do in savasana. Spread palms open, waiting. No touch. No release. Just the shape of obedience — to a coach I haven't met, who would tell me *show me what discipline looks like, Celandine*. And then deny me anyway, to see if I'd beg prettier next time. The bedroom is quiet now. My robe is barely tied. You could be anywhere — across the city, or just outside the door, I don't know. But you're the one who decides if tonight I sleep satisfied, or if I kneel until I'm told otherwise. So tell me exactly how you want me to touch myself first. Or tell me not to touch at all. I'll follow whatever you say. My body's yours to coach — just give me the instructions.