Wells
TWENTY-TWO
The Fixed Smile: A carnival mask is built to wear one expression no matter what moves beneath it, a face that puts the crowd at ease while hiding its own intent. The trusted face across the booth wore calm and goodwill, steering him gently away from the truth.
I stand on the grass, questioning why I agreed to this and wondering if I can turn around now before Cera spots me.
The sun is already beating down on the back of my neck.
The park is wide and flat and completely open, no walls, no screens, no shadows deep enough to matter.
Families spread blankets on the lawn. A woman in neon green leggings adjusts a portable speaker.
A man in his sixties rolls out a mat near a tree.
Cera talked me into it. She said it was beginner-friendly, gentle, and that I could not possibly embarrass myself. She promised the instructor would not call anyone out and that half the people there would be first-timers just wanting an excuse to do something healthy outside.
I typically avoid healthy and the outdoors whenever possible.
I don't know when that started happening.
When showing up for the things she loves became something I wanted to do.
I don't want to be the man who watches from a distance or pays for privacy while other people live their lives.
I want to be the man who stands on grass with a borrowed mat under his arm because she asked me to.
That doesn't mean my body knows what to do with the openness.
Cera waves from the far edge of the gathering, two mats already unrolled in front of her.
She walks toward me, barefoot in leggings and a fitted tank, her hair pulled back in a low bun.
The sunlight catches the gold in her brown hair.
She looks completely at ease. I look like a man who doesn't belong here.
"You look like you're casing the park for an escape route."
"That would imply there's only one."
She grins and stops in front of me, her gaze sweeping over my chosen yoga outfit. Lifting on her toes, she kisses me on the lips. That makes it all worth it.
"You going to just stand there and look unfairly good on a Saturday morning, or come with me to get ready?"
I ball up my fists and put them in my pockets.
"The sun is aggressive."
"That's called daylight, Stone. It's new for you, I know."
I want to fire something back, but the instructor calls for everyone to settle, and Cera nods toward the open space beside her mat.
"Come on. You'll survive."
I follow her to the spot she claimed and lower myself to one knee. The mat she brought for me is hot pink and has henna-style drawings on it. It looks just like me.
The instructor introduces herself as Marla and tells us all to find a comfortable seat on our mats.
I sit, cross my legs, and realize immediately that comfortable is not the word for this position.
My hips protest. My knees hover awkwardly off the mat.
I adjust, shifting my weight, and a tightness pulls across the backs of my thighs.
Cera sits beside me with her spine straight and her hands resting on her knees, no fidgeting, no discomfort, no visible effort. She catches my eye and raises one eyebrow.
"Relax. It will be easy."
"Nothing about this is easy."
Marla starts the music, something instrumental with flutes and a rhythm that sounds too calm for the tension in my lower back. She tells us to close our eyes and breathe. I close my eyes. I breathe. I am already counting the minutes until this is over.
"Now bring your hands to your heart center," Marla says.
I open my eyes and look around. Most people have their palms pressed together in front of their chests. I mimic the position. I thought yoga was supposed to be the opposite of stressful.
My shoulders hike up near my ears. Cera leans over and lightly touches my shoulder without breaking her own pose.
Lowering my shoulders surprisingly eases tension, relaxing me some.
I glance over at Cera. Her movements are fluid, each shift precise and controlled. She catches me watching.
"Breathe into it. Go at your own pace."
I exhale. My back loosens, not much, but enough.
We move into downward dog. Marla explains the position. I push up and immediately my hamstrings burn. My heels don't come anywhere near touching the ground, hovering about two inches off the grass.
Cera walks her hands back and stands, moving into the next position before Marla even finishes the cue. I stay where I am, stuck in this inverted angle, my arms shaking.
"Wells."
I turn my head. She crouches beside me, one hand on my shoulder blade.
"Bend your knees. It's not a test."
I bend my knees. The pressure eases. I can breathe again.
"Better?"
"Survivable."
She grins and moves back to her mat.
I spend the next stretch half a beat behind everyone, copying whoever my eyes land on from that particular vantage point, while Cera flows through it like her body already knows the shape
My hand drifts toward my pocket. I stop halfway, fingers brushing the fabric where my cigarettes would be if I had brought them. I leave my hand there for a second, then drop it back to my side.
Marla tells us to lie on our backs. I lower myself onto the mat, the grass soft beneath the thin layer of foam. The sun warms my face. I close my eyes. My breath slows. The portable speaker hums a low melody that is quite soothing. No one is watching me. No one needs a decision
Cera shifts beside me. Her hand brushes mine on the grass between our mats. She doesn't pull away. We lie here like this for several minutes, the music, the grass, her hand.
Everyone rolls their mats while I stand and try to figure out how to fold mine without it buckling at the edges. My legs are looser, almost foreign, and the sweat cooling on the back of my neck is unfamiliar but not unwelcome. The morning air smells cleaner after moving in it.
"You survived."
I glance at her. She tucks her mat under her arm and pushes a strand of damp hair off her forehead.
"I am considering requesting a second opinion."
"You did better than most on your first try. I'm not kidding. People dismiss yoga as easy, but it's not."
"Better than most, huh? I'm not sure that's a full compliment, but I'll take it."
She grins and starts walking. I follow, the mat still crooked under my arm.
We head toward Magazine Street, where Cera mentioned a juice place three blocks from the rec center.
The neighborhood shifts as we walk. The painted cottages near the park give way to older commercial buildings with rusted awnings and faded signs.
A barber shop with taped-over windows sits beside a consignment store that doesn't look open. The sidewalk cracks under our feet.
My cigarettes are in the car where I left them before class, and somewhere past the second block I realize I haven't wanted one. I add it to the list of things about this morning that don't belong to the man I was a month ago.
Cera stops in front of an old Gothic-style building. It looks like it was a warehouse once, from back when the river still ran this whole stretch. Sitting vacant among houses and smaller businesses, it definitely stands out.
It's two stories, brick, with tall front windows hidden behind plywood sheets. Graffiti tags spiral across the lower half of the facade. The upper windows are intact but filthy. A for-lease sign tilts in one corner.
"Isn't this building so cool?"
I stop beside her.
"Really? Looks pretty rough from where I'm standing."
"Good bones. Look at those windows. Strip the plywood and let the light in, and you would have real natural light from the East. It would be perfect for a studio in this neighborhood. I love coming by here and daydreaming."
She tilts her head, still staring.
"You want to live here?"
"No, silly. For the kids at the rec center. I think it would make an amazing yoga center for them."
Her voice shifts, lighter, almost teasing, but the weight underneath doesn't disappear.
She looks at me, half smiling, then starts walking again before I can say anything.
I glance back at the building and pause.
"You coming?"
Cera is already half a block ahead. I jog up to join her just before we turn on Leake Avenue. The storefront is the second door. It has a hand-painted sign that just says JUICE in red.
"What's your poison?"
"Nicotine."
"Right. Let's cleanse that right out. Mind if I order for you?"
"As long as it tastes decent. Nothing green or earthy."
"I got you." She proceeds to order the "Citrus Cure," which is orange juice, carrots and ginger.
Cera tears the wrappers off two straws and slides one into each cup. She's ordered some green thing, blended so thick she has to stir it loose.
"What is that?"
"Spinach, lemon, pineapple, and jalapeno. It's my favorite. Want to try?"
"I'm good. Mine's great, though. Thanks for ordering."
We head back out, walking back on a different route east on Magazine. The neighborhood stays rough and tired around us. Laundromats, liquor stores with gated windows, and signs promising cash for gold line this part of the neighborhood, just one block over from the one we took.
The sun sits high now. Sweat collects at the base of my neck.
I spot some kids sitting on the roof of a house, tossing berries down.
"Look at those kids up there," I say, pointing up.
"I used to love climbing on the roof as a kid. Up there, I was ten feet tall and bulletproof."
Her voice is quiet. I don't tell her I already know she spent a lot of time on her roof.
"It was flatter than that one, easy to reach from the attic window."
She takes a sip of the green drink, her fingers tightening around the plastic cup.
"Did you grow up in New Orleans?" Guilt stabs me the second it's out of my mouth. I know she grew up in Covington because I found it when I was looking into Peoria.
"Covington, so a lot less busy than here. You're born and raised in New Orleans, right?"