35
Carla found Rhonda. That was her big surprise. My friend texted me again, this morning, and demanded I meet her in Flourtown, where our favorite teacher has found a home at a new studio.
C’mon, Jess. I know you don’t have anything (or anyone) better to do.
I crawl into class, hung-over, bleary-eyed, and feeling like death. Once again, I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole of relapse. It’s been two days since my slip. Two days of tearful self-recrimination. A forty-eight-hour pity-party, thrown by me, for me.
Branches is refreshingly unpretentious, painted pale, sun-ray yellow with a white Tree of Life stencil etched onto its solid, stable surface. It’s been three weeks since I last took a class with Rhonda and my body is craving whatever modes of redemption she can offer.
“Double Pigeon
