Do I Know You?(60)



I watch the effect this has on my fellow participants. Part of me is just curious to people-watch the group, who do not disappoint—the older woman who harrumphs good-naturedly, the good-looking men younger than us who exchange smiles glowing with insinuation, the wife in expensive yoga wear who grimaces when her husband in his golf clothes plants his hands in his pockets. But part of me is wondering whether I’ll find my fragile hopefulness mirrored in other guests.

I don’t. Plucking up my confidence once more, I face forward.

“Sit back-to-back in sukhasana,” Trish instructs us from the front of the group.

Never having done yoga before, I don’t recognize the terminology. I wait for Trish to demonstrate the pose with her partner, the young woman who’s joined her on their mats. They sit cross-legged, facing opposite directions, spine to spine, postures perfectly aligned.

Graham has lined the mats up end to end. Following the group, I position my back against his.

The feeling of him jumbles me up. The contours of his muscles make me remember when I stared, watching him walk cavalierly from our—from his bed to the Jacuzzi, not to mention remembering everywhere my hands roamed last night and everywhere I want them to in nights to come.

I want to match the ease I feel in his posture. The depth of his breathing, the low slope of his shoulders.

Despite how kind he’s been, despite the perfect conditions of the sage-scented Big Sur breeze rolling over us, I can’t. I’m certain Graham feels the sharp stiffness of my posture. I’m guessing he knows it’s not entirely the product of good yoga form.

“Breathe together,” Trish tells us. “Focus on your grounding.”

I close my eyes, concentrating on the movement of Graham’s back behind me. I work on timing my breaths with his, letting our rib cages expand together. But we’re out of rhythm. I’m out of rhythm. Whenever I start focusing on finding our flow, questions of my mom, Michelle, the wedding, nudge me in delicate places, distracting me from the calm I’m chasing.

I try not to let the desynchrony frustrate me. Not being frustrated is kind of the point of yoga, I think. Within a couple minutes, we start to find our harmony.

Right then, of course, Trish introduces the next pose, moving on to some seated swaying movements designed to stretch our spines. I reach outward like she’s doing, letting Graham clasp my forearms.

He helps me move, bending over from side to side like we’re supposed to. But somehow, the movements don’t feel natural like they did when we danced. I feel myself resisting his pressure. When it’s my turn to stretch him, I’m relieved the pressure isn’t on me to perform relaxation.

“Now stand,” Trish instructs. “In these next poses, you’re going to work on balancing with each other.”

Do they want this stuff to be some sort of metaphor? Renewing my resolve, I stand with Graham, who silently imitates Trish’s movements with her partner.

Unlike in the previous exercises, we’re now facing each other. I can feel Graham trying to meet my gaze, his eyes like flashlights searching for survivors under rubble.

It’s just . . . too much. I skirt his stare, embarrassed by my own evasiveness. I can’t help it—I’m proud of how I’ve worked this week to open up, but right now, I feel myself putting up distance.

Frustrating, familiar distance.

We end up pulling the poses off well enough, but honestly, it’s discouraging how disconnected—how frankly unsexy—everything is. Our inelegantly synchronized movements must look more like airport security than yoga. Wobbling on our mats, I feel distinctly uncoordinated and out of touch.

In fact, with the way we’re struggling to connect, it’s like we really did only just get together, unlike the other couples surrounding us, most of whom seem comfortably in tune with each other. We’ve spent the week pretending we don’t know each other, but right now we don’t have to pretend. Regret courses through me. If I’d only not answered my phone this morning, I could be in the moment with him.

The instructor calls for one partner to go into balasana, or child’s pose, while the other stands behind them to lean on their back. Graham and I pause, indecisive for a moment before he folds himself over into the restful pose. I stand over him, preparing to bend forward the way Trish showed us, my cheeks starting to flush. Not the good kind of flush, either. How is this so uncomfortable? So dysfunctional? Nevertheless, I gamely reach forward, leaning the way we’re supposed to.

Unfortunately, I end up startling Graham, who jerks a little, causing my hand to slip. I very nearly bust my chin on his shoulder. Instead, we lurch together, my stomach pressed precariously to his back.

Of course, right then Trish walks by, smiling magnanimously. “If you two aren’t up for the more intimate poses, don’t worry,” she says. “You’re still early in your relationship, still finding your connection. Don’t overextend. Why don’t you sit in sukhasana and focus on your connection? Feel each other and really breathe together.”

While she couldn’t have spoken more gently, the suggestion makes embarrassment flame hotter in me. I have searing flashbacks to my freshman seminar professor, who in front of my entire cohort informed me the Juliet I was proud of was “devoid of romance.” Noticing the other couples balancing smoothly, I muster up my effort to keep frustration from seizing hold of me.

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