Magic and the Modern Girl (10 page)

“A customer.”

“A customer? Like from Cake Walk?”

She nodded her head, but she refused to meet my eye.

“You mean a paying patron? Someone who comes into your place of business and conducts a retail transaction like a totally normal human being? A man who has the good taste to recognize the best bakery in all of Washington, D.C., and who thinks to pay you the compliment of asking you out to dinner or a movie? That sort of customer?”

“Well, when you say it like that…”

“Is there some other way to say it?”

“It’s just that it feels scummy. Sly. Like I met him under false pretenses or something. I hate to think that the only reason he’s been coming in for the past year is because he thinks he’ll get something on the side.”

“For the past year! Melissa, you’re practically engaged to this guy already!”

“I hardly know him.”

“What’s his favorite coffee?”

“Anything with caramel. He gets one every morning.”

“What’s his favorite cookie?”

“The Almond Brick Roads. He gets them in the afternoons.”

“What’s his favorite cake?”

“My grandmother’s Apple Cinnamon Cream. But he only gets that on special occasions.”

“Where does he work?”

“Down in the Harbor. He’s a lawyer.”

“Well, that’s a major strike against him, I’ll admit,” I said dryly.

“Do you think so?”

“Hello! Melissa! You just described a dream man! What’s his name, and why didn’t you say yes, the instant he asked you out?”

“Rob Peterson. And I just couldn’t. I don’t want to mix work with play. It seems cheap. Besides, if things don’t go well, I’ll lose a customer.”

I gaped at her. All of her years of shopping around, all those First Dates from Hell, they’d melted her brain. Or maybe it was the fumes from all the hand gel she had absorbed the day before. “Melissa White, if you lose a single customer, the world will continue rotating on its axis. But if you pass up this chance—this chance to go out on a date with a perfectly normal guy, who has stopped by to see you at least twice a day for God knows how long…” I trailed off, running out of enough words, enough threats to make her see sense. I finally settled on “Please, Melissa. Just this once. Date a customer. Say yes.”

She squared her shoulders. “Okay,” she said. “I can sort of see that you’re right.”

“Sort of—”

“I’ll say yes. If he asks me again.”

“You’ll ask him! You’ll say that you’ve reconsidered!”

“I—”

“Friendship Test!” She looked flustered, but she raised her chin as I went on. “I Friendship Test this. You have to go out with him. At least once.”

“Friendship Test,” she finally conceded. And then she glanced at her watch. “Oh! We’re going to be late!”

No such luck.

We got to the yoga studio in plenty of time. Everyone was still rolling out their spongy mats, finding the perfect pied-à-terre for the torture session that was to follow. After a winsome smile at me, Melissa laid out her own mat in the front row, closest to the instructor. I nodded in approval, being perfectly content to set up in the second row, slacker heaven, away from the direct oversight of the Vinyasa dominatrix who masterminded these classes.

I settled into a Half Lotus position in the center of my mat, familiar enough with the drill to know that I was supposed to be centering myself, finding my core, understanding the peace and harmony and balance in my body. Instead, I used the time to replay the horrific embarrassment of the day before, the instant that I realized just how wrong everything had gone between David and me.

Maybe he was right. Maybe it was all a mistake. If I felt this terrible just
thinking
about what had happened, this uncomfortable just remembering how his lips had…

I forced myself to take a trio of deep yogic breaths. Everyone around me was settling on their mats. To my left, a spry woman who looked as if she was made for the arched backbend of the Wheel Pose settled into Full Lotus and breathed herself into apparent nirvana. I felt chastened, as if I shouldn’t be thinking about David but should instead be focusing on all the peace and harmony that ancient Indian contortion techniques could bring to my life.

I tried to settle back into my own centering, but I couldn’t keep my attention from wandering to the other students. On the far side of the room was a man who had to be seventy, if he was a day. He spread out his mat and flowed through a loud but precise sun salutation, his breath coming in staccato snorts as he showed off perfect physical form before settling into his own Full Lotus. A pair of teenagers sat behind the old guy, giggling behind their hands to each other.

Next to me, another man tossed out his yoga mat, trying to make the rectangle lie flat on the studio’s wooden floor. The ends kept curling up, though, despite his best efforts at pressing them to the ground. I watched his struggles for a minute before my librarian instinct to help kicked in. “If you turn it upside-down, it’ll lie flat.”

He looked surprised that anyone had noticed his dilemma, but then he flashed me a smile. His brown eyes were large behind round black glasses that made him a total ringer for an adult Harry Potter. His grin was crooked as he followed my instructions. “First day with the new mat,” he said self-deprecatingly. His smile was an invitation to chat.

I wasn’t ready for that. Not ready for the flirtation, not ready for the getting-to-know-you dance. I noted the guy’s eyes, and I thought about other brown eyes, familiar ones, flecked with green, brown eyes that had drawn me in only the afternoon before. I saw unruly chestnut curls, and I thought of straight black hair, of silver glinting at temples that I wanted to reach out and touch…. I shook myself back to the studio.

Fortunately, I was saved by the bell. Literally. As the instructor flowed into the room, she carried a tray with her, a lacquered surface filled with cones of incense, a tiny vial of lavender oil and a palm-sized brass bell. She set the tray on the ground in front of her own impeccably flat mat, and then she pressed her palms together. She raised her joined hands chest high, letting her fingers point toward the ceiling. “
Namaste
,” she said, inclining her head in a graceful greeting.

Namaste
. I honor that place in you where the whole universe resides. The traditional Indian greeting that started every one of the twisting, turning torture sessions that Melissa dragged me to. At the instructor’s urging, I struggled for a deep breath, honestly trying to reach out for the universe inside me.

The universe of confusion, that was. The universe of what-had-I-done. The universe of what-had-I-been-thinking-going-to-bed-with-my-warder.

But I soon ran out of time for thinking about my stupid actions of the day before. I needed all my energy to focus on my stupid actions there and then, in the yoga studio.

The instructor started us off with easy poses. She led us through a half-dozen sun salutations, designed to get our hearts pumping, our minds and bodies primed. I kept up well enough, hopping back into a perfectly serviceable Plank, lunging into Downward-Facing Dog. The round of exercises certainly served its purpose. I was breathing like a warrior by the time we finished, furiously trying to manage my gasps for air, breathing in through my nose on a not-quite-steady count of five.

The instructor became my own personal hero when she ordered us into the breath-saving all-fours pose of Cow. I tugged at my yoga pants a couple of times, trying to keep them from riding up on me, and then I gave in to the series of interlocking exercises—Cow, with my spine curving in, my belly sagging toward the floor and Cat, my spine arching up like a Halloween icon.

The movement felt good—my back actually enjoyed the contrast from sitting in my chair at the Peabridge. I was even able to get my breathing under control, to find some semblance of the peace and inner strength that Melissa and the instructor always rambled on about. I flashed a smile at my best friend as we rose to our feet for the next round. She had been right after all. The yoga class was precisely what I needed; it was just the ticket to get past my crazy schedule at work, the turmoil that was my twisted family life, the shambles I’d left things with David.

And then the instructor told us to move into Eagle Pose.

I’d done it before. Once. A lifetime ago, when my bones were still made out of Silly Putty, and I’d believed in the power of concentration. And balance.

I stood as straight and tall as I could. I told myself not to be aware of the perfect bodies all around me, the women who looked like they had been sculpted into their yoga pants and body-hugging T-shirts. I raised my hands, bending my elbows and executing a complicated pretzel twist that tugged at my shoulders. I reminded myself we were all beginners at something, that we all needed to strive toward perfection. I picked a point on the wall ahead of me, staring as if my concentration on this pose in this studio at this moment was the most important thing in my entire life. I reassured myself that we all worked at things, that we all struggled to find balance and peace and harmony.

I raised my right leg, knee turned out, my foot gliding along the inside of my left calf, my left knee, my left thigh.

And I stumbled out of Eagle, staggering forward two full steps to end up on Melissa’s mat.

“Sorry,” I said, hopping back onto my own spongy rectangle. She barely acknowledged my presence, perfectly relaxed as she was in her own flawless Eagle.

Embarrassed, I tried again. Back straight. Arms twisted. Eyes focused. Leg up.

Graceless tumble—but at least I stayed on my own mat. That was the good news. The bad news was that I was the only student who fell out of the pose. Even the new guy, the guy who had his mat set up next to mine, managed to sway and keep his balance.

Gritting my teeth, I rallied one more time. Back. Arms. Eyes. Leg.

Collapse. Collapse and stagger and tumble and—

“Easy there,” the guy said, hopping out of his Eagle Pose just in time to keep me from knocking him halfway across the room. Melissa turned to look at me. The entire classroom turned to look at me. I felt as if I was some sort of circus freak show.

The instructor said, in her calm, soothing voice, “If you ever find a pose too difficult, remember that you can assume Child’s Pose. Find your center. Start again.”

I’d be damned if I was going to collapse into Child’s Pose. In fact, I’d be damned if I stayed in the room for another two hours of contortionist torment. Catching Melissa’s eye, I mouthed, “I’ll call you later,” and waggled my fingers beside my ear in the universal sign for a phone. I snatched up my mat and headed for the door before the surprised instructor could say anything else, before she could suggest another pose to the entire room full of perfect yogis.

I stood in the hallway, gasping for breath. I couldn’t tell if I was more winded by my awkward Eagle Poses, or by my embarrassment at having given up. I forced myself to walk up and down the hallway outside the classroom. Now, the deep breaths were easy to come by. Now, I could feel the tension draining out of my shoulders.

The classroom door opened, and the guy who had broken my fall came out of the studio. My sandals dangled from his hand, and he had slipped my handbag under his arm. “I’m sorry—” I started to say.

“Don’t be,” he said, handing over my things. “Your friend was going to bring these to you, but I offered. I’ve had enough of the Peaceable Kingdom in there.”

“You were doing fine,” I said automatically.

“I was making a fool out of myself,” he said. “I only signed up for the class because my girlfriend wanted me to.”

“Then you should get back in there!”

He winced. “Um, that would be
ex
-girlfriend. We broke up three months ago. Right after we paid for the session, actually.”

“You should have gotten a refund,” I said, shaking my right sandal into place. I reached out for my purse.

“Ah…” he said, handing it over. “Pride goeth before a fall. If you hadn’t given up on Eagle Pose, I’m sure the next position would have taken me out.” I couldn’t believe that he was highlighting my awkwardness, that he was teasing me for falling into him. He apparently couldn’t believe it, either. He winced and said, “That didn’t come out right.
I
would have fallen in the next pose. I was barely managing Eagle.”

I made a wry smile but accepted his explanation, glancing at my watch. “Thanks for bringing me my stuff. I’m sorry to be rude, but I really should be going.”

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“I have to be somewhere,” I said automatically.

“You were supposed to be
here
for two more hours,” he pointed out. “Come on,” he said. “Just a cup of coffee. And you can explain to me about the peace and centering and holistic healing that you women find in there.” He nodded back toward the studio.

“I absolutely cannot do that,” I said. “The only thing
I
find in there is a best friend who’s a whole lot better at this than I am. Not that we’re supposed to compare ourselves to others.” I mimicked the instructor’s saintly tone. “We’re here to grow our own spirit, not measure ourselves against the rest of the class.”

“Maybe that’s why most guys can’t get into this stuff,” he said. “We men should start our own studio. Extreme yoga. Competition for our modern age.”

He pulled his face into a horrifying grimace and struck a fake body-builder pose that was so incongruous to his Everyday Joe build that I couldn’t help but laugh. “There,” he said. “One cup of coffee? Make me feel like I didn’t totally waste my afternoon.”

“One cup,” I finally said, deciding to choose companionship over an afternoon of nursing a bruised ego. Some more. I held out my hand. “Jane Madison,” I said.

“Will,” he countered. “Will Becker.”

He held the door for me as we stepped out onto the street. I imagined Melissa in the studio, gliding into Camel Pose or Cobra Pose or something even more exotic. I was never going to make it as a yoga goddess. But I was excelling at living the life of a caffeine queen.

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