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Six-thirty in the morning is a crime. I want that on the record.
I rolled my borrowed mat out on the deck above the beach, the sun a pink smear over the water, and tried to look like a woman who did this regularly. There were seven of us: a honeymooning couple, four retired Canadians, and me.
Ana taught barefoot, in a black sports bra and shorts, her braid swinging. Her voice was low and dry and funny. “Breathe like you mean it, Sophie. You are not trying to hide.”
I was absolutely trying to hide. By the third sun salutation my thighs were shaking. In downward dog she came up behind me, put both hands on my hips and drew them back, firm and exact. “Here. Lift. Let your spine be long.”
My whole body lit up like a switchboard. Her thumbs pressed the dimples above my arse. When she finally moved on to correct the Canadians, I stayed in the pose a few seconds longer than I needed to, face burning against the mat.
By the end the Canadians had drifted off to the buffet. I lay in corpse pose, boneless, staring at the sky.
Ana sat down cross-legged beside my head. A tiny lotus tattoo showed above the waistband of her shorts.
“You did well,” she said. “I don’t have another class until four. And tomorrow is my day off, if you’d like to see a Mexico the brochures don’t have.”
I looked up at her upside down and thought about both.