the yogi's wife looks up from her limber flex: "now stretch, really stretch, like you're trying to touch something just out of reach."
the class extends one sweatpant-clad leg and reaches out to touch its unanimous toes. grace sees alex's curved spine, each vertibrae a notch evident through her white shirt. and she reaches, each finger joint unhinging, every muscle unfurling, her chapped lips cracking with the sheer wave of panic. she reaches farther than anyone in the class, even the gymnasts and dancers, her small frame crunched, her organs collapsing in on themselves like babies folded in a stroller. even when the exercise is over and the rest of the united body assumes the corpse pose, the pose of relaxation, grace keeps reaching until it feels like her whole body will break.