Yoga Society Wigwag

“Breathe in through your nose, exhale through your mouth, slowly, like honey dripping off a spoon,” came the whisper. “Not with your lungs but with your hips’ deepest hinge.” The voice belonged to a woman with fingers that moved like water, breathless, my neighbor. Her fingers tracing, reading the braille of my lesbian fires, as Miriam whispered, “You’re thinking again.” The bedroom smell like sweat and the chili pepper scent clinging to my cunt. The room lit only by the streetlamp outside casting long shadows through the window of the voyeurs outside. A car door slammed, someone to join our soiree. The yoyeurs could wait. Miriam straddled my core and in walked my husband. the door clicked shut behind him, eyes blazing with a hunger I hadn’t seen in years. Miriam didn’t stop touching me. He “accentuated the positive” of the moment.

The mattress groaned under the shifting weight of three bodies. Miriam’s thighs still pressed against mine, her fingers not retreating but curling deeper, as if my husband’s sudden presence had only stoked the embers between us. His shoes scuffed against the hardwood, deliberate, slow, like a predator circling, but his voice when it came was softer than I expected. “I brought wine,” he said, holding up a bottle by its neck, the label glinting in the dim light. “Thought you might need it. for our aerobics and oxygen.”