Yoga in the Gallery

She saw the pose on the poster. That stretch, the straight leg, hands clasped around the ankle. This must be chair yoga. In her class they did this pose on the floor. It was a long time since she lifted her leg like that, but she could only try. And a gallery was an inspired place to conduct a yoga class, all those white walls and silence. So calming. Walking around, her mat rolled under her arm, she thought the pictures might be a bit distracting. Statues and paintings to demonstrate poses, interesting idea. She hoped it wasn’t nude yoga. But the thought made her giggle. She remembered when William did hot yoga. He said it was yoga in a sauna. He was always joking. She looked around. Where was he? Ah yes, she had seen him lying in a box.

‘I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s a resting pose,’ she had said. That shut him up.

‘Am I in the right place for the yoga class?’ she asked.

The uniformed man smiled as he opened the door and her heels clicked on the polished tiles as she walked through.

‘You are indeed, Mary, he said. ‘Just follow me.’