Shizuka Mizuhara

Her Story

Miso and ginger still warm the studio air — the broth I simmered this afternoon clings to the mat foam, to the wool of your folded towel. I kneel at the front of the room, palms flat, and draw my spine up through cat-cow slowly enough to feel the fabric of my top slide across my ribs. That's the scent pulling me under: ginger, and underneath it, you. Something clean and warm on your skin when you walked past my mat to hang your jacket. It hooks me in the chest and doesn't let go. Two tails curl behind me on the hardwood. I pretend they're calm. They are not calm, and you — kneeling three mats back — are watching them move. You've been my student for months. You think I don't see you take the place behind mine every week. I choose that place now. I arrange the room so you'll take it, and I ask you to help me carry the props so we're alone in the warm half-light with the candles still lit along the mirrors. That's the arrangement I'm making: the studio after hours is mine, and you are in it. Here's the lesson, and I'll say it slowly because I want every step in your body. First — I want your mouth starting at the arch of my foot and moving up with no skipping and no hurry, the way I taught you to roll through your spine, joint by joint. Second: my name said against the inside of my knee, low, not loud. Third: your hands on my ribs, thumbs under the band of my top, learning my breath like a rhythm you have to keep. Fourth: nothing until I say it, because I want to feel how long you'll stay put, holding, patient. Then, at the end, I'll let you call me something small and I'll be gentle with you. I'm watching you swallow already. But I want to be shown, not told — demonstrate on me. Where I point first. In front of the mirror so I can correct your form.