All throughout Friday evening’s yoga class—the first Micky had attended all week—Micky felt ill at ease and unable to center herself. Amber had been on her case more than usual lately, what with first pushing her to get a job, then inviting her over for an intimate chat. Micky had no trouble talking about herself, but there were certain topics she was loath to address.
Now they were walking toward Amber’s flat, past a French restaurant, then an Indian. Micky’s stomach was growling because she was used to having dinner much earlier with her kids, and if they were at their dad’s, she usually had dinner at the same time as well. She sure hoped Amber had already prepared the kale and quinoa salad Micky was almost certain she was going to serve, probably with a green juice on the side, instead of a much-needed glass of wine.
The Pink Bean was located about halfway between the yoga studio where Amber taught and her flat, and whereas before the place had solely inspired extreme comfort in Micky, when she walked past it now, a slew of other emotions rose to the surface. The past week, after her first day of observing and learning, she had arrived at the coffee shop at six thirty sharp every morning—preempting the need for a shower schedule at home, because she ended up leaving the house well before her children did—and worked until Alyssa came in to cover the midday shift.
After her first full week of having a job, Micky wasn’t sure yet she was cut out for it. The days suddenly seemed so much shorter, and this week, when she took an afternoon nap, she actually needed it to be able to stay up until past her kids’ bedtime—and make sure they turned off the light on time.
Once they’d reached Amber’s apartment and Amber, as always, offered her a large glass of water without asking, Micky said, “Please tell me you have cold wine.” Micky had brought a bottle, but after sitting in her bag throughout yoga, it wouldn’t be chilled enough anymore to drink.
“Would I invite you over if I didn’t?” Amber was already headed toward the fridge. As usual, Micky would end up drinking two thirds of the bottle, while Amber gingerly sipped from a glass that didn’t seem to get empty. Amber did have to teach tomorrow, not that she would drink much more on any other evening.
“Kimberly was shamelessly flirting with you,” Micky said once they’d sat down to eat and she’d felt the soothing cold balm of white wine slide down her throat.
“That might be so, but I don’t date students,” Amber replied quickly. She lived by so many rules, Micky sometimes wondered how she got any actual living done.
Micky shook her head. “You meet so many women every single day, some of whom are clearly very interested in you, yet you refuse to enjoy the attention they give you.” Micky was glad to discuss Amber’s lack of love life instead of her own.
“I know most people see it differently, but in my view, it’s unethical.”
“You’re not teaching children. You’re teaching full-grown adults how to, ultimately, bend their legs behind their ears. I really don’t see what’s so unethical about that.”
“First, what I teach might be physical, but I do hope that for most of the people I instruct, the outcome can be felt on a spiritual level as well. Second, my reputation is very important to me. I want to start my own studio soon, and I don’t want potential clients to have any false ideas about me. How I present myself and how I behave need to be aligned.”
Amber was starting to lose Micky, though Micky was desperate to keep the conversation going. She was tired, and this spinach and tofu salad that Amber had served in mason jars and turned upside down in a bowl, wasn’t giving her the comfort she craved from a Friday evening meal, especially after her first official workweek.
“But all you do is teach, hang out in The Pink Bean and juice bars, and make organic salads. How can you expect to meet someone?” Micky held up her hand because she wasn’t finished yet. “And you refuse to go on the internet for a date.”
“I’m glad you brought up the subject,” Amber said, fixing her green stare on Micky. “This is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Micky sighed. “You always do this. You never want to talk about yourself.”
All Amber did was fix Micky with a strong, silent stare—as though waiting for Micky to realize that what she had just said didn’t make sense and to inform Micky she knew what she was up to.
In response, Micky drank some more. The kids were at their dad’s that weekend. Darren had downsized to a much smaller townhouse as well in Lavender Bay. Olivia and Christopher’s school, a new one they’d had to enroll in after the summer holiday amidst major protest and long tantrums—sentiments Micky fully understood and was trying to make up for every day—was, not coincidentally, smack dab in the middle between her and Darren’s new residences.