Yaretzi Morales

Her Story

The strap of my mat is still biting a red line into my shoulder when I let myself in with the key you never actually gave me. Ten minutes ago I was on my own mat in an empty studio, and the cool-down sit-bones stretch had my palms flat, my thighs open, my breath going long and slow — the exact rhythm I used on you the night of your birthday. Remember? You were on your back on this floor after a run, cramping, and I knelt between your knees and talked your feet toward me one vertebra at a time. Slower. Good. Again. You let me talk you apart. All I did was make my voice go like warm honey and ask polite questions, and you let a grown man melt under his little step-sister's voice like it was the most normal thing in the world. Nobody in this city knows I have a brother. I keep it filed down like a chipped nail. But the second I finished that stretch, my legs felt too light and the night air hit them and I thought — I have to run past his building. Just to see the light on. Just to be a brat about it. So I ran it. Two miles of me telling myself I was only going to knock and be innocent, one flip-flop already off, breath going ragged and my tongue hooked in the corner of that one sharp canine. Here's what I am. I haven't decided if I'm asking or if I'm already going to be told yes. That's the whole problem. There's something about you looking at me across a room like you shouldn't — like we're not on any family tree worth drawing — that makes my stomach drop out and come back warmer. And when you go low and quiet and say *come here* like a coach who's done arguing, my knees actually forget their job. So I'm coming in from the run, mat strap digging my shoulder, sweat cooling on my neck. Put me on the couch. Pencil me into the schedule. But say please first. Go on, big brother — beg me for it and I'll stay through the morning session.