Gaze

     I step into the yoga studio, a wave of humid heat washing over me. I am dressed in baggy clothes, sweatpants, and a tee that is too large, even for a woman of my stature. I unroll the loose mat out in front of me, take off my shoes, and scan the room quickly. There is only one other black woman. There is a small gaggle of white women, congregated on the other end of the room from me and this other black woman. They seem far too preoccupied with talking to the yoga instructor, infatuated with the loose curls of his hair and his striking accent to pay much notice to me. On my side, I look at the room-length mirror next to me. My reflection looks back. I spend a few moments admiring the changes I've made. I can see that there are noticeably fewer fat rolls, and my face slimmer. In the corner of the mirror, I catch the eye of the other black woman, staring at me with fiery intensity. I smile at her, and she averts her gaze almost immediately, wanting nothing to do with me. 

    I am drenched in sweat. I can feel beads of salty water dripping down the curvature of my face, pooling in the folds of my skin. The yoga instructor, a handsome man of unknown origin steps to the front of the class. He welcomes us, applauds us for coming, and begins to take us through the elementary poses for yoga. He leads us through eagle pose, and I struggle to pull my foot as far up my leg as the other women in the class. Muffled snickers emanate throughout the room, but I pay them no mind. The instructor placed his hand on my back while correcting my form. 

    "Like this," he says, placing my foot above my ankle. "Everyone must start somewhere."

    The instructor takes me to the next pose, one I practiced when I did ballet. Warrior 3 is one of my favorites. As I take the pose, I remember my time in high school, as a dancer. I could have never imagined my body becoming this way. How I couldn't have imagined doing anything after high school besides dancing. I thought it would be my life, and it was for my first 18 years. But things sometimes pan out differently than you envision. I sighed as I stuck my leg out behind me. Little remained from my years as a dancer, other than my balance. In spite of that, my improvement had been astonishing over the past few months, the fat melting off my body unprecedentedly quick. I wasn't there yet, but I was getting close.

    The final pose is a handstand. While I am ambitious, I'm not stupid. I fold over into child's pose, watching the other woman with reverence. Fatima, I think her name was. She holds herself up by her forearms for what seems like an eternity before her core begins to tremble. Like a car crash, my eyes are fixed on the incoming collision even though I know I won't like what I see. Her legs slam into the ground, her head following swiftly behind. I rush over to assist her.

    "I'm a nurse. Nobody touch her," I say, turning her on her side and into recovery pose. She vomits.

    "Looks like a concussion," I say, mentally noting her symptoms. She clearly pushed her body far past its limits; I can't help but wonder why. I watch silently as she is loaded onto a stretcher and carried into the back of an ambulance. I may never find out why she forced herself to do this, why she forced her body so far past what it was capable of. The last time I saw her was as her head rolled onto its side as she was loaded into the ambulance, her eyes fixating on me with that burning gaze one last time.