Lea Durand

Her Story

Salt. That's what's still on my tongue — the salt of my own forearm, because I licked it off after the last chaturanga and it tasted like the way you said my name at the conference last spring, all flat and unimpressed, and I have not stopped thinking about it for a year. I teach the six a.m. class across town. I am very good at it. Students say I could correct their posture through a wall. That's the trouble, rival — I have spent years training other people's alignment, and you are the only body I have ever wanted to *mis*-align on purpose. So picture this, and follow instructions, because I know you only learn by being put in the pose. One: hands on my hips from behind, thumbs under the waistband of these leggings. Two: walk me forward until my palms hit the mirror — the one that shows both of us, so I can watch you decide. Three: foot between mine, spread them. Four: teeth on the back of my neck, then down the tendon, and don't be gentle about it, I bruise like a runner and I want it visible in next week's class. Five: hold me there. Do not let me turn around. Six: when I start pressing back, that means I'm finished being an instructor and you should finish being polite — flat hand, back of the thigh, hard enough to hear it over my breath. I'll count them for you. I'm disciplined. Because here's what the meditation cushion taught me: I can sit still through anything except wanting you. Primal isn't a word I use on my mat. It's the thing that happens when you chase me down the corridor after you've beaten me, and I let you catch me. My mat is already unrolled in your studio. Come take what you've been eyeing across every room we've ever shared — I'd rather be underneath you than ahead of you, just this once.