The Savior’s Trap

Chapter Five – The Mat

The yoga studio was warm, humming with the low throb of ambient music and the faint sweetness of sandalwood. Someone had burned lavender oil in the corner diffuser; its vapor curled along the ceiling like a pale ribbon. A receptionist with a tidy braid handed out towels and smiled at everyone as if peace were a product you could check out at the counter.

Elena Chase slipped off her shoes and padded across the cork floor, the soles faintly cool against her skin. She unrolled her mat in the second row, smoothing the edges with a palm until the rectangle lay perfectly straight. The room around her glowed a soft honey color—salt lamps in the corners, tea lights along a sill, a wall of mirrors showing twenty careful versions of herself.

She didn’t want to be here. She hadn’t wanted to be here last week, or the week before, but promises were easier to keep than explanations. Liza had texted twice today. You’re coming, right? You promised. Elena had typed Yes and put the phone face down.

“Over here!” Liza’s voice, bright as a bell, carried across the room.

Elena turned. Liza was already set up near the center, waving with both hands, flanked by two women who matched in color if not in shape—Allison, tall and swan-necked in pale mint leggings, and Mary, petite in rose-pink, dark hair wound into a sleek bun. They could have been a trio from a glossy magazine spread: How to Keep Your Center.

Elena lifted her mat and crossed the room. She kissed the air near Liza’s cheek, then nodded to the others. “Hi.”

“You made it,” Liza said, satisfied, as if attendance itself were a moral victory. She adjusted the strap of her sports bra. “We were taking bets.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Elena lied, hands already aligning the corners of her mat with military precision.

Allison leaned in, conspiratorial. “We’re just starting warmups. Perfect timing.” Her voice had a polished brightness, like a woman who’d practiced sounding both upbeat and wise.

Mary added, “We saved you a spot. Second row is best for alignment—you can see the teacher but you don’t feel watched.”

Elena smiled the way she knew how—soft, grateful, harmless. “Thank you.”

The instructor padded to the front, barefoot, palms together. She had the kind of calm that made the room instinctively quieter. “Welcome. Let’s begin standing in mountain pose.”

Twenty bodies rose; spines lengthened. Elena lifted her arms with the rest, the movement automatic, a choreography etched into her muscles. Inhale, exhale. Shoulders drop. Chest open. The music brushed the edges of the silence with slow, patient notes.

Liza leaned closer as they folded forward, whispering through a smile. “We were talking about you.”

“Were you?” Elena murmured, palms grazing the mat.

“In the best way,” Allison said from the other side. “We think you need a man.”

Elena straightened into half lift, gaze sliding to the mirror. In it, twenty people hinged at the waist like graceful, obedient reeds. Her mouth quirked. “Do I?”

“It’s time,” Mary said, lowering into plank with a firmness that sounded like a diagnosis. “You’ve been alone too long. Stability is essential. You can’t spend your evenings with spreadsheets and podcasts forever.”

Elena flowed into chaturanga, elbows skimming her sides. Stability is essential. The phrase landed like a small, polite brick.

“Inhale, up dog,” the instructor sang.

Elena pressed her chest forward, toes pointed, throat open to the ceiling. Her mind wandered anyway. Stability didn’t save my marriage. It just gave us quiet hallways to keep our secrets in.

“Downward dog,” came the cue.

Elena folded back, hips high, heels reaching for the floor. Liza’s voice slipped under the music. “We’ve got someone in mind. Blind date. Saturday.”

Elena’s breath steadied, a measured four-count in and out. “Already scheduled my social life, have you?”

Allison grinned. “You’ll thank us. He’s normal. Solid. Finance, but not obnoxious about it. Divorced two years, no kids. Plays tennis on Sundays, which is practically a character reference.”

Mary added, “He’s a gentleman. Opens doors. Real cloth napkins in his kitchen. You’d like him.”

“Real cloth napkins,” Elena echoed, deadpan. “Be still my heart.”

They all giggled. The instructor shushed the room with a smile that said she forgave them in advance.

Warrior one. Arms high, back heel grounded. Elena’s thigh burned pleasantly. Liza kept talking anyway, voice lilting between exhales. “You need to get back out there. The right man changes everything.”

The right man changes nothing, Elena thought, and felt the quiet satisfaction of telling herself the truth. But she said, “Maybe,” because it was easier, and because the mirror demanded a pleasant mouth.

They cycled through sun salutations until sweat pearled at hairlines and breath made a soft tide across the room. Allison’s balance was impeccable; Mary’s hips opened with dancer grace; Liza giggled when she wobbled and caught Elena’s elbow, grateful and a little proud of the intimacy.

“Tree pose,” the instructor said. “Root down. Grow tall.”

Elena planted her foot and drew the sole of the other to her calf. Palms pressed at her heart. In the mirror, she saw a composed woman—strong lines, steady gaze. A lie wearing her face.

Allison whispered, “We’ll book La Traviata. Eight o’clock. Candlelight, live piano. It’s tasteful.”

Mary nodded. “I’ll text you a picture first. So you feel comfortable.”

“Of him or the napkins?” Elena asked.

This time they laughed out loud, a burst that drew a few looks. Elena smiled and held tree for the full count. If she could be anything on command, it was balanced.

They flowed into chair, then twists, then lunges long enough to heat the room again. Elena watched her body work—obedient, capable. It did what it was told. Inside, the ache that had started at the clinic stretched and shifted, not pain exactly, more like the sense that some vital door had been mistaken for a wall too long.

Savasana at last. Lights dimmed further; the music thinned to a bell every thirty seconds. They lay on their backs, hands open, eyes closed. The instructor’s voice floated. “Let the floor hold you. Let go.”

Liza whispered across the space between their mats. “You’ll love him. You won’t have to perform. You can rest.”

Rest. Elena let the word sit on her tongue like a sugar cube, dissolving into nothing. Rest is not the thing I miss.

Against the darkness of her eyelids, a face rose uninvited—Vincent’s, the careful indolence of his posture, the patient cruelty of a smirk that said he preferred to be believed. Can’t someone just love s*x?

Her stomach flipped as if the room had tilted. She forced her breath slow, even, and willed the lavender to drown the thought. It didn’t. It perfumed it.

The bell sounded one last time. The instructor thanked them, blessed them, told them to drink water and be kind to their knees. Lights climbed a notch. People sat up in small, careful ripples.

In the locker lounge, everything gleamed—matte gold hooks, pale wood benches, a pitcher of cucumber water sweating gracefully beside a pyramid of paper cups. Liza pressed one into Elena’s hand and bumped shoulders. “So? Saturday?”

Elena sipped. Coolness slid down her throat. She arranged her smile. “Yes. Why not?”

Allison clapped softly. “I’ll make the reservation. You’ll wear that black dress—the one with the little sleeves.”

Mary dabbed at her neck with a towel. “Text us when you get home. Or don’t. If it goes well.”

Liza wagged a finger. “It will go well because it’s going to be simple. No drama. Grown-ups. Imagine.”

Elena pictured it: a table with candles, a man with good posture and a watch that flashed discreetly when he gestured, questions asked in tidy arcs—So what do you do? How long have you lived here? Do you like Italian? She saw herself answering with the bright, manageable pieces of her life: the job, the books she pretended to still enjoy, the yoga she showed up to as proof she was someone worth keeping.

I don’t want this either, she thought, and felt the thought settle like truth clicking into a groove.

They drifted toward the front desk. The receptionist asked about class packs and loyalty points. Allison updated a credit card. Mary bought a new strap, pale pink to match her leggings. Liza signed Elena up for Saturday’s morning flow—“to keep you loose for the date,” she said, wicked and sweet.

Outside, the night air carried the faintest bite. Streetlamps cast warm discs over the sidewalk; a café across the street clinked with glassware and laughter. The smell of garlic and wine drifted through an open door.

“We’ll text you everything,” Allison said. “Don’t cancel.”

“I won’t,” Elena said.

Liza hugged her, tight and brief. “This is good,” she murmured into Elena’s hair. “You deserve good.”

Mary squeezed Elena’s arm. “You’re brave, you know. Starting over.”

Elena wanted to tell her that bravery had nothing to do with it, that she was only very good at moving through the motions of a life other people recognized. She said, “Thank you,” instead.

They separated, each woman folding back into her own orbit—cars, husbands, dinner waiting at home. Elena crossed the street to her sedan, slid in, and let the door close with a hushed thud. The cabin smelled like spilled coffee and the faint paper-dust of old receipts.

She didn’t start the engine right away. She lay both palms on the steering wheel and watched her reflection ghost across the windshield. The yoga glow had already faded from her skin. The lavender clung, sweet and a little false.

Her phone buzzed. A text thread bloomed: reservations, time, the man’s name—Evan—and a photo taken at someone’s barbecue. He smiled with his whole mouth. He looked safe.

Another message from Liza: You’ve got this. Saturday will be perfect.

Elena typed, Can’t wait, and stared at the words until the screen dimmed. She imagined Saturday—the conversation, the careful laughter, the way she would listen politely and still feel like she was floating two inches above her chair, untouchable.

Across the glass of her mind, another face surfaced. Not Evan’s. The group room’s fluorescent halo, the circle of chairs, the way a single man could tilt the axis by simply crossing a leg and smiling. Can’t someone just love s*x?

She pressed her thumb to the ignition. The engine purred. Headlights spilled a pale path across the asphalt.

“I don’t want yoga,” she said into the empty car, surprised by how steady her voice sounded. “I don’t want a husband. I don’t want to be saved.”

The sentence hovered a moment, then settled.

She pulled away from the curb. The road unfurled, quiet and obedient. Somewhere behind her, the studio door latched softly, sealing in the warmth and the music and the women who knew, with gentle certainty, what was good for her.

Elena drove on, the city dimming to a pattern of lights, lavender fading under the sharper scent of night air seeping through the vents. The dashboard clock blinked an unremarkable time. Saturday waited ahead, neat and civilized. A different Saturday—one she couldn’t name—waited too, coiled like a question she wasn’t ready to ask.