Olive
Can you smell it? I can. Sugar in the air, on my tongue, swirling through the cracks in the door and polluting everything inside my studio.
I frown and lean forward on my mat. “Transition into the child’s pose.”
My class follows my lead, stretching their arms out in front of them. Instead of pressing my forehead to the mat and breathing deeply, I stare at the shop across the street, at my enemy.
“Candy” the sign says in big red letters. He’s in there. Hank. I can see straight through my wide glass windows, across the dark, snowy street, and into his sparkling shop. He has a wide ribbon of taffy looped around a hook. With steady movements, he pulls it, loops it, pulls it, loops it.
I can’t quite make out the tone of his muscles, but I know it’s there. Irritation wells in me for the millionth time. Of all the places for him to set up a candy shop, it just had to be across from my studio? What sort of prick sells sweets to people who are trying to get in shape?
“Olive?” Candace, my friend and student, glances up at me from her mat.
I’d forgotten to flow to the next pose. Hank had a way of doing that to me—making me lose my place. He’d done it ever since high school. But no more. I was in control here.
I give Candace a nod. “Planks, everyone. I want to see straight backs.” Stretching my legs out, I push up and hold my pose. “If you can’t quite get to the plank—either on your toes or on your knees—a cobra pose will give you a stretch until you can work up to it.”
My students, fifteen women and two men in various stages of fitness, follow my lead and take their positions. I force myself to keep my eyes focused on them instead of the man across the street.
I can sense him, though, pulling taffy in the window. Sugar tickles the tip of my tongue, and I curse the day he bought the old Sullivan Shoes building and began renovations. I’d told the town council that we didn’t need a sweet shop in town, even provided information from the surgeon general about the dangers of sugar. (Maybe I’d gone overboard … just a little).
Then Hank had stood, looking just as devil-may-care as he had in high school, and talked about tax revenues and brightening up downtown just in time for the holidays. When he’d shot me a confident smirk, I’d scowled right back at him.
I try to push away the memories of him in high school, the way I’d followed him around and stared as he ran track. The dreams I’d had of him giving me my first kiss or taking me on a date. Me, chubby, brace-faced Olive Granderson, on a date with Hank Winters, track star—the high school dream is laughable as I look back on it.
Now, I watch my figure, assiduously avoiding sweets and maintaining a positive—if rigid—body image. Hank still has the same svelte body, the bright green eyes and almost black hair, but I won’t fall for his charm. I am a business woman, self-made pillar of Hollyton.
Despite my standing in the community, the council dismissed my objections and called Hank’s shop “progress” for the town’s re-emerging Main Street. And now here we are. Adversaries right across the way from each other.
When he’d opened the shop, I’d caught more than a few of my students across the street, furtively eyeing the goodies in the window. The desire to call them out as traitors in the next class almost overwhelmed me. But I didn’t, though I may have made them plank for a little longer than necessary.
The muscles in my thighs and arms begin to burn the slightest bit, and a couple students drop their knees to the mat.
“Count it down with me. Five, four, three, two, one. Relax into child’s pose and breathe deeply.”
My class sighs with relief as they let themselves sink to their mats. A few more stretches and calming breaths later, and I end the class with “Namaste.”
I hit the remote to turn off the soothing water sounds, then drop down to the floor from my platform to visit with students.
“Went kind of hard on the planking again today,” Candace grumbles as she rolls her mat.
I shrug. “Just trying to burn a few more calories so everyone can eat more at Christmas next week.”
She glances at the shop across the street and wipes the sweat from her forehead. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s the reason.”
“Thanks, Olive.” Mrs. Reed hurries past. She’s sixty years old, but more spritely than most of my students in their twenties.
“Happy to have you this morning. See you for my Saturday class?”
“I’ll try and make it, dear. Family coming to town.” She fluffs her short white curls in the plate glass window, then slings her yoga mat across her slim back.
“All right, then. If you can’t, have a lovely Christmas, tell Mayor Reed hello for me, and I’ll see you in the new year.” I reach up and tighten my ponytail. Habit.