Yoga Moon Dance

“Hi Sonia. Long-time-no-see.” Trent, a fellow student, tosses bits of change over the soft sides of the collection box. “I had a bad investment year last year.” I get it. I didn’t work either for some time after a relationship split-up and fractured face—unrelated incidents. Eventually the shelter, a Christian organization, hired me. The minister there said that maybe one day I’d be able to share my story. Trent doesn’t donate much to Karma Yoga. I want to talk to him more about Karma. He’s cute, sheepish, doesn’t ogle the girls here. He makes them blush, but not in a lustful George Thorogood way. Last week he told me I seemed to be building up good Karma. He’s so confident, yet insecure. Is he humble? I can’t figure it out over the couple of months we’ve chatted at yoga. As I roll out my flower print, baby blue yoga mat, the instructor lights the last candle. We start with a breathing meditation, teacher sitting behind the candles. It’s almost romantic with Trent beside me. He has a deep scar shaped like a half-moon on the inside of his forearm. His teeth are a bit yellow; he told me he quit smoking seven years ago. I don’t think he has benefits in his job as a truck driver; shaves his own balding head to save money. He seems to say the right things all the time. Soft spoken during yoga, direct after class, funny too. And no man-bun. I wonder if he’d have one if he could? Told me he’s going through a breakup. So am I. Mine, well it’s been two years. He seems to think his ex is crazy. What does that say about him? A few postures on my mat. Warrior two does make me feel strong, gazing over that front arm, holding a gentle yet firm focus. Half-moon from triangle, reaching hand for a block in front of straight leg, lifting back leg while opening the hips and reaching top arm to the sky. The teacher says the moon is the feminine energy and it’s a full moon tonight. She suggests putting clean water out overnight to soak up the feminine energy and drink it in the morning. Trent giggles then tries to make a joke with me. I’m attempting to balance in half-moon; my balance isn’t as good as it was twenty years ago. Still, I try to laugh with him through my mixed feelings. I’m starting to get that yoga high, ‘getting higher’ as the teacher would say—plus there’s that male energy beside me. There’s euphoria and contentment preparing for savasana. I think Trent’s sweating. I am. He has nice biceps for a skinny guy, amazing chest hair sneaks out from the top of his shirt. I feel fat and inadequate. We drink water after class. “So how did you get that scar on your arm?” I ask. “Do you want to go for coffee?” he asks. “Tim Horton’s on the corner?” I take a step toward the door. At Tim’s he peels the rim off a Tim Horton’s coffee and asks me what I do at the shelter. I dual track my thoughts with an answer. If there was a God, then what would I really want? A Prince Charming to make everything all right? But maybe God sent me this trucker: Trent from yoga, a coffee, and a maple dip doughnut. “Simple graphics,” I say. The shelter’s expanding its services across western Canada; graphics are changing so fast and so much is automated. I used to do my ex’s digital marketing and web design for a small oil service company too. That’s how I found all his dating sites.” I savour the last bite of doughnut and ration the last few sips of the double-cream coffee.