They sprawled out on the grass. A foot grazed a breast as they flexed into downward dog—couples yoga style. Carla had suggested that morning that they go to the park and try something new. Al knew it was an attempted rekindling of any shrapnel that still existed in their failing relationship.
The concept of yoga was as foreign to her as his grandmother’s cooking. Twice, she swung her leg around and nailed Al in the chest. With a mixture of fear and a slight twinge of contempt on her face, she said, “It was an accident.” Quick to control his temper, Al opened his lips to say clumsybitch, then clasped them shut.
After an hour of gracelessly executed Vinyasa and several grass stains, Carla stood up and brushed her hands off on her nylon pants.
“I got a call from Mom and Dad today. Asked us if we wanted to come by this weekend for golf.”
Al laid down and another stain nestled its way into the small of his back. Seconds passed.
Carla said, “Did you hear me?” Al sat up and rubbed his eyes. Carla’s mother was a lush, an incessant bore who spoke of white wine, interior design, and not much else. Her father, on the other hand, was a shell of a man, subdued by years and years of talk about: Maybe we should switch out the countertops because beige marble is so last season. Don’t you think, sweetheart?
“You never came to see Melissa last week,” Al said. Carla plopped down next to him and twirled a piece of grass between her thumb and her forefinger.
“Melissa doesn’t like me,” she said. Melissa was Al’s daughter, and Carla was right. She sighed a sigh so deep and long that her lungs became neverending, as big as the black pig lungs that they showed Al in 3rd grade to deter him from smoking those nasty cigarettes.
He popped an American Spirit in his mouth and flicked his Zippo while Carla packed up her water bottle. She put on her shoes. She looked at Al, then looked away. Al stayed in the grass and thought about how he’d rather be anywhere but here.