Alone at last. She sat on the floor and breathed—in . . . out . . . in . . . out. She should at least get in half lotus, clasp her hands in Namaste, make some part of her body contorted or at least profoundly uncomfortable, but her will sagged. She couldn’t do it. Breathe in, breathe out was enough.
Swami what’s-his-name would agree, would smile that plastic smile, incline his head, let his lashes flutter slightly and say peace or some such stupid thing.
He wasn’t a swami. Carolyn didn’t know what a swami was, but the guy was no swami. He had muscles and bleached hair. Swamis were skinny ascetics, unmuscled, serene. He’d practiced the facial expressions, the pronunciation of namaste and savassana, the bow, the hands before the sternum in prayer position.
STOP. STOP. She shook her head, shook Swami right out of her brain and stood up.
She was alone. She’d shown him the door. No more private sessions at $100 an hour. No more stripped to the essentials. She had thought the essentials included underwear but smarmy swami smiled and let his head swing back and forth slowly as he unclasped her bra, unfolded her hands from namaste, slid the straps down, and bingo.
He actually said, “Bingo!” which woke her up. She pushed him away, pulled her bra across her breasts and, assuming no position but her own, gazed over her outstretched arm, and ordered him out.
He protested, spoke soothingly, fluttered the lashes, smiled with oily plasticity as he pulled on his tank top, his clinging shorts, his swami sandals, received the check between clasped hands, bowed, and left.
© 2012 Kathleen Coskran