“First pose,” the instructor announces, “the Double Tree. Balance on one foot, and press the sole of your other foot to the inside of your thigh. Then, reach out, holding your partner’s hands to find your center.”
Getting up, we move slowly, mirroring each other’s movements. Carlie wobbles a bit, her foot slipping.
“Oops,” she giggles, gripping my forearm for support. “I’d love to lie and say I’m usually more grounded than this, but you already know better.”
I chuckle, steadying her with a gentle touch. “Nothing wrong with a little wobble. It’s all part of finding your balance—inyogaand I guess in ... other things too.”
She laughs, a sound that seems to fit perfectly in the quiet studio, and finally finds her footing. “Okay, Mr. Philosopher, let’s see how well you do when we move on to the next pose.”
“No pressure,” I say, trying to maintain my own pose. Turns out, my hamstrings are tight and staying upright is more of a challenge than anticipated.
As we secure our balance in Double Tree, Carlie’s concentration is palpable. She’s determined not to let her initial wobble define the session.
“Nice recovery,” I compliment her, and her responding grin is nothing short of triumphant.
“Thanks to my human crutch,” she fires back, her dimples digging into her cheeks.
“Not at all. You’ve got this,” I say, releasing my hold just a bit to show her.
She whimpers at the loss of contact, but remains upright, as predicted.
We move on to the next sequence of poses, and I can’t help but notice the seamless ebb and flow of motions between the other pairs in the room. Their ease with one another speaks of shared spaces and intimacies far beyond what Carlie and I have—or should have.
Each touch, no matter how innocuous, carries a ripple of something more between the other participants and it does strange things to my head.
“Next, we’ll be doing the Seated Forward Bend with a twist,” the instructor announces.
Carlie and I sit facing each other, legs extended, our feet barely touching.
“You’ll lean forward and reach for your partner’s hands,” the instructor guides.
As we fold towards each other, our fingers awkwardly lace together, and I can feel the hesitant pressure of her palms against mine. They’re in contrast to the confident clasps around us.
“Now, look into each other’s eyes, and synchronize your breathing again,” the instructor continues.
I look into Carlie’s eyes, and feel a jolt of something I have no right to be feeling, but I can’t seem to help it. We breathe in, and as we exhale, I catch the faint scent of vanilla and something wild—like the night air mixed with adrenaline.
We move on to a Cat-Cow stretch, hands and knees grounded, moving our spines with the breath. I sneak a glance as Carlie arches her back, her hair cascading forward, and for a moment, the room around us fades.
Her hair sweeps past her shoulder and drifts like a red feather across my arm. The brief contact is like a live wire to my senses and my body goes rigid.
“Remember to keep your movements fluid,” the instructor’s says, placing a guiding hand on my shoulder and giving it a pat.
Oh, if she only knew.
I nod, trying to relax into the pose and ignoring the sudden rush of blood down south.
Thankfully, by the time we transition into the Revolved Chair pose, things have settled back to normal.Thank fuck.
However, this whole session is an odd mix of control and vulnerability—a push and pull that somehow feels like the very definition of our blurring relationship.
At one point, our hands are supposed to mirror the other, but instead, my fingers graze Carlie’s as I twist, causing a momentary break in her concentration.
She looks at me, eyes wide, and there’s that current again—stronger now.
“Sorry, looks like I’ve got butterfingers today,” I say, though the touch was more electric than slippery and I’d do it all over again.
“It’s okay,” Carlie responds, her voice just above a whisper, “I don’t mind a little ...butter.”