Can't Look Away(4)

The new woman has risen to a seated position, watching Molly, her spine perfectly stacked and straight. Molly looks at her midsection again and thinks that her own stomach used to look like that, before she had a baby. It’s never quite gotten back to what it was, even though Stella is five now. But Molly doesn’t feel bitter or judgmental, and the woman grins at her with full, wide lips.

Molly begins the practice without much effort. Teaching comes easily to her at this point; the sequence she has chosen to teach that day—hamstrings and hips—spills out from memory. She’s always very present when she teaches yoga—she has to be; she can’t miss a beat—and she doesn’t let her mind turn to other thoughts until her students are lying like corpses in Savasana. Sometimes, at the end of class, she presses each student’s shoulders and pulls their necks up to straighten their spines, massaging their temples with essential oils. But today she’s not in the mood to touch anyone; she sits and breathes on her own before cuing them out of Savasana to end the practice.

“Namaste,” she says calmly. During her yoga teacher training in Brooklyn years earlier, Molly learned the meaning of namaste in Sanskrit: I bow to the depth of your soul. She remembers being so affected by this when she was a twenty-three-year-old teacher in training, convinced it was the most honorable utterance in existence. She’d even been close to getting the Sanskrit translation tattooed below her collarbone—thank God Nina had talked her out of that one. Now, the word feels meaningless most of the time she hears herself say it. This thought makes her feel cynical and old.

After class, Molly perches herself behind the front desk as her students gather their belongings and leave the studio. She chats briefly with her regulars—Meg’s hips have been tight and she loved the sequence; David, a friend of Hunter’s, asks how Stella is doing and what their plans are for Memorial Day weekend. The woman with the belly button ring lingers, carefully zipping her yoga mat back into its case, then checking her phone.

“That was a really great class,” she says suddenly, catching Molly off guard. She approaches the desk, and Molly sees up close how beautiful she is, though she doesn’t actually look like Nina. The apples of her cheeks are flushed from the workout, and her eyes are a striking green. She pulls her dark, glossy hair into a ponytail and smiles, revealing straight white teeth. Molly notices the fine lines on her forehead and around her eye creases, and decides she must be at least thirty.

There are things she doesn’t love about teaching, but she loves this—being in the teacher’s seat, the confidence it brings her, the confidence that reminds her of her old self. “I’m Molly. You have a great practice.”

“Thanks for class, Molly.” The woman slings her yoga bag over one shoulder, and Molly notices the cartilage piercing in her left ear, the same tiny, thin gold hoop that Molly used to sport herself. She removed it on her wedding day—it didn’t feel very bridal—and never put it back in. The earring isn’t glaring, but it’s still the kind of mildly edgy accessory that would provoke hours of gossip between women like Meredith Duffy and Edie Kirkpatrick.

“I’ll definitely be back.” She adds, “My husband and I are newlyweds who just moved here. I’ve been looking for a good studio.”

Molly smiles warmly. “I’d love to have you again.”

The woman’s eyes linger on Molly’s in a way that feels slightly unnerving, but mostly intriguing. “Have a nice rest of your weekend,” she says brightly, and Molly watches her walk out the door, hoping, genuinely, that she does come back.





Chapter Three

Sabrina




You are even more radiant in person than you are in pictures. I know, I know: I shouldn’t be surprised.

I spent much of class watching your ankle bones from ground level, their delicate structure, and the way your heels form a near perfect ninety-degree angle with the soles of your feet.

I know what you’re thinking, and no, I don’t have a foot fetish, not even close. What I do have is a preoccupation with you. It isn’t sexual; I suppose you could call it emotional, if you’re the kind of person who needs everything explained, but that wouldn’t be quite right, either.

So where were we? At the feet. Let’s keep working our way up, then.

Your calves are slender—you have the kind of naturally skinny legs that stay that way even when you put on weight. I’ve seen you pregnant—you don’t know that, of course, but we’ll get to it later—and even then, your legs were stems. Your belly has seen better days; even underneath your loose-fitting top, I can see the belt of flab that forms when you fold forward. But your body is good, there’s no doubt about that, especially given the fact that you had a baby. Five years ago now, but still. My mother held on to an extra fifteen pounds after she had me. Never lost it. I give you credit.

Moving up. Your rib cage is slight, and your breasts are barely there; because of this, you are the kind of woman who looks good in clothes. This makes me jealous. I’m a 34C, and there are so many shirts and dresses I can’t get away with. Your shoulders and arms are toned but not excessively, and your wrists are twiggy. Your fingers are long. You’re tall, Molly. You’re taller than I thought you’d be.

You have a graceful, sloping neck and a heart-shaped face. Pale, clear skin—I’d love to know your skin-care routine—and wide hazel eyes. And your hair—your hair is your pièce de résistance, it has to be. Big, messy waves of golden blond, and I bet you haven’t colored it a day in your life. That beautiful heap twirled on the crown of your head is complex and layered and untamed—like you, maybe. I’m the opposite. My own hair is dark and sleek and dries pin straight in the sun. I am one-dimensional; I know what I want and I know how to get it. And I won’t stop until I do.