THE STARS IN OUR SKY
Gwendoline Keller
CHAPTER ONE
✤✤✤
Natasha pulls her red, open weave sweater on. As usual, the small of her back is wet with sweat. She liberally sprays herself with extra strength antiperspirant, and melts some of her patchouli solid perfume on her wrists. She pads barefoot down the stairs to the cafe of the Boston Women's Art Centre and orders her usual cinnamon and ginger tea from Lucia. She jots down the names of the women that came to her session, the poses they managed, and what they found difficult. It was no teacher's mark book, but a cluster of observations interspersed with pages of doodles. Natasha kept a record of each of her classes; each class had its own vibe and character and she wanted to capture it as accurately as she could.
Her writing is large and slanted, and she uses one of the old drawing pens that she favored in art school.
Cathy: Retired head teacher. First session. Prefers individualized instructions. Weakness in left wrist. Also attends French language group.
Elise: Fourth session. Still wants to build core strength. Is Deaf, interpreter (Rose) will translate my instructions.
Kaz: Attending since 2014. Very proficient. Working on the Wounded Peacock. Seemed quiet today. Mentioned booking a trip to Europe but I didn't get a chance to ask where.
Natasha has taught yoga at the Boston Women's Art Centre for eight years and she has a record of every attendee. From those that had come devotedly for years, to those that had dipped their toe in once and had never come back. She could trace their progress from their first ever downward facing dog to trying the one-handed tree pose. She could trace their journeys through marriage, children, travel, illness, divorce, transition, and even death.
The next class was her favorite, the LGBT women’s' group. She had established the group two years ago and was pleased that so many women came, including a good number of trans women and bi women. As a cis lesbian, she had tried to be aware and inclusive in the language she used to describe the group, and had asked some of her smart trans, bi and gender queer friends to write blogs for the centre's website. She'd made sure they had a gender neutral changing room and when one of the women's boyfriend had picked her up from a session, Natasha had run outside to say hello. The group had flourished, and Natasha was proud that many friendships and relationships had sprung up. There were a few couples eager to 'reconnect', singles looking to meet women away from the bars, some vegan hipsters, and a small coven of older women that Natasha had to try and prise herself away from. Natasha was pleased that she had women that worked all kinds of jobs, from South End curators to surgeons, social workers, waitresses, and one woman that worked at a gas pump.
Natasha felt her teaching was best when she could relax and be herself, giving instructions mixed with long discursions, verdant metaphors and the odd flurry of French or Russian. She always looked forward to the class on Tuesdays.
Natasha lingers by the big cork boards to look at the messages there, ponders buying a fold up bike or an old armchair. After finishing her tea, she makes her way back up the studio to stretch out again. Soon, the usual crowd starts filtering in. Natasha is pleased to see several regulars arrive together, chatting animatedly.
Behind the rest of the group is a woman that Natasha had not seen before at yoga, at the centre, in South End, or even in JP. The rest of her class tends to wear either harem trousers and tank tops, or smocks and leggings. This tall stranger is dressed more ostentatiously. She wears fuchsia pink leggings with panels at the sides that taper as they reached her ankles, emphasizing her wide hips and rounded calves. The panels are patterned with swirling pastel pink and white, and the overall effect is a sort of 80s aerobics instructor Barbie doll.
On top she isn't wearing a vest or a t-shirt but a magenta, long line sports bra. It pushes her large breasts together; her tanned chest is smooth and taut. The straps cut into her shoulders, leaving the skin underneath looking red and irritated. Her stomach is soft and rounded, the bra biting into the skin of her waist. The skin of her stomach flutters lightly from her walk up the stairs, and she holds one long hand against it. Her hair is thick and blonde, woven into two long plaits pulled together at the back of her head. She has round, pink cheeks and deep brown irises that stand out sharply against the brilliant whites of her eyes.
The rest of the group drifts towards their usual spaces, pull out their mats and begin their stretches. The stranger lingers, pink foam roll under her arm.
"You're welcome to set up anywhere you want. Most people have their own stretches they do just to warm up the muscles. If you like I could suggest some, or you could just start your movement after our welcome circle," said Natasha, trying to project a sort of friendly authority.
"Yes, thanks."
She unrolls her mat right in front of Natasha. She is a good few inches taller than Natasha and looks directly down at her. She rolls her neck first to one side, and then to the other. She spreads her shoulders wide and rolls them forward and back. Natasha had seen Gillian do the same before choir, and Natasha
