20
“What the f**k is that?”
April nudges me. “You can’t say f**k in a yoga studio.”
I laugh. “You just did.”
I point, again, at the photograph of the scantily clad woman in an inverted pretzel. “Seriously, what do you even call that?”
“Um… impossible?”
The woman is supporting her entire body weight with her hands—like a handstand—but her legs are contorted into Lotus.
“Um… exhibitionism?” I counter.
The figure in the image is wearing a jog b*a and the kind of butt-coverage-only shorts that high school cheerleaders put on under their skirts to keep from flashing people during their Rah Rah Sis Boom Bahs.
I’ve been coming to Serenity for sixty-six days and I’ve never seen this obnoxiously reverential photo before. April either. Sometimes, on Saturdays, I bring her with me to Rhonda’
