She called it Yoga for One.

I found a stream a month ago during a rare confluence of self-disdain and spare time that collided into something resembling motivation.

Tucked between the kickboxing classes and the home gym meat heads was her thumbnail.

It caught my eye.

It was a simple shot of her face so near to the camera that I could count the freckles.

Her teeth a little too large for a mouth and a nose ever so slightly crooked.

I've never been the type of guide to consider yoga, but I tuned in and in a matter of seconds I was entranced.

The girl was in a living room, a haphazard mizancen, the floor speckled with

sad little plants and stacked magazines. She posed with her hands on the floor and her hips thrust in the air.

Her butt perched in the center of the screen.

I decided to stay a while.

I had no yoga mat, so I laid out a towel. It was difficult to follow along.

She talked a lot, and only a fraction of it was about the routine.

Press your heels together and bend your head to your feet, breathing deeply.

My feet smell like peaches and cream today.

Makes me want to gobble them up.

I love summer peaches. I love biting

into them and feeling the juice erupt in my mouth. It reminds me the time when

and I fell into the meditative quagmire woven by her words, inhaling the scent of my own socks,

failing to notice she'd moved into a different pose.

After a while, my muscles trembled with the effort of supporting my soft body in these unfamiliar positions, so I called it a day.

It was then that I noticed it.

...