Page 10

10

Ben Stirling

I’ve drawn approximately five hundred and eighty-six yards of fabric, and I still have one window to go. The last one. The one near my bed.

Jeremiah’s house is lit up again like it was last night. He’s not on the sofa tonight. At least, not anymore. He was there for a while, then hopped up like he’d forgotten to do something. He disappeared through a doorway off his bedroom—a bathroom and dressing room, maybe?

When he returns to view, he’s changed out of the clothes he was wearing and into a sporty-looking ensemble. It’s the kind of thing you expect to see on people who shop at Lululemon or places like that. He’s wearing pants and a crop top. Tight pants. Leggings or yoga pants, I think you’d call them. They’re midnight blue and purple with swirls reminiscent of the Andromeda galaxy. They cover his legs to one, maybe two inches above his ankle. His feet are bare. His tank is black, snug, and cropped to show a thick band of his midriff, and he has a yoga mat under his arm.

He slides open the glass doors and rolls the yoga mat out under the covered area near his pottery wheel. His back is toward me, shoulders down and loose, and he starts with gentle stretches of his neck, slowly working his way down his body.

There’s something peaceful about watching the way he moves.

There’s something peaceful about him too.

I’m not sure I really understood the phrase “holding space” before today. I’ve heard it mentioned, but I’ve never really given much thought to what it means. I’m pretty sure that’s what happened, that that’s what he did for me today. I told him ridiculous things about being afraid of curtains and life without Liz, and he held space for me. That’s exactly what it felt like, like there was a space around us and he held it for me. In his arms and his hands. Like he pried something open. Something rusty and old, holding it ajar until a little light and fresh air had been let in.

I’m not sure exactly how he did it or why, but it was the most comforted I’ve felt since the day Liz died.

He moves through poses with well-practiced ease. The poses start off fairly simple but quickly get complicated. Very complicated. He does a perfect headstand, with his toes pointed, body stiff as a board, and holds it for so long I start wondering if he’s lost consciousness, but then he moves into a position that involves lying on his belly and pressing himself up with his arms, bowing his body back in what I can only assume is an attempt to see how far he can bend his spine backward without snapping it. From there, he moves effortlessly into a position that, honest to God, does look like he’s making himself into a pretzel.

To quote Phoebe Buffay, he’s “very bendy.” That’s for sure.

When he’s done with all that, he gets on all fours. His breathing is hard but controlled. Even from behind, I can see his ribcage rising and falling at regular intervals. He spreads his legs, shifting them open one at a time, moving his knees out so his stance is just a little wider than his hips, and braces himself on his hands. His pants are tight. Skintight. His body is more muscular than it looks in other clothes. The Lycra stretches over the tightly balled rounds of his ass, pulling slightly at the seam that runs down the middle. I’m not entirely sure if he’s wearing underwear. I can’t tell from here, but the fabric dips into his crack slightly as he moves, so I think probably not. His spine arcs up like a cat getting ready to attack. He holds the position for long enough that I realize I’m holding my breath. When I exhale, he arches his back. Hard. Very hard.

I take a hurried step back and draw the curtain with a loud snap. Then I get into bed.

I’m going to tell him I can see everything he does when he’s home the next time I see him.