Chapter 3: Sasha and the Art of Falling Over

Lawrence woke with the sick certainty that the cat had not been a dream and the weaker hope that humiliation could be canceled like a subscription if you clicked the right corner of your soul. That hope died the instant a velvet weight shifted on his ribs.

“Up,” said the baritone. A paw pressed into his sternum. “We sweat today.”

The ceiling crack forked like a bad decision. On his chest, a tuxedoed creature sprawled with the gravity of royalty demanding tribute. Lawrence shoved it aside as if the blanket were the problem.

“I’m not going.”

“An interesting position,” observed the cat, “from someone who cannot hold a position for more than three seconds.” Another deliberate knead into bone. “Shower. Then insert yourself into those dismal black sausage casings you call pants. Time moves forward, Lawrence. You might try it.”

The shower dribbled lukewarm apology. Whiskers perched on the toilet tank like an auditor sent to rescue civilization one armpit at a time.

“Soap,” he prompted. “Yes, the pits. Civilization begins with pits. Behind the ears—ah, the lost continent. Farther down—do not perform a half-liturgy and expect salvation.”

“Are you going to watch the whole time?”

“I am guarding humanity’s last candle from the wind.”

Lycra stretched with a nervous squeak as the black fabric climbed over his thighs. The waistband rolled like a mutinous tide and had to be wrestled into place—like a reluctant pool toy that held grudges. In the mirror, a pale undercooked thing peered out from borrowed skin. An uninvited caption from the forums: Chad wouldn’t look like a latex kielbasa. The pants squeaked whenever he moved, a small betrayal each time.

Whiskers, immaculate as a maître d’ of fate, hopped down. “Head up. Pretend you have a spine.”

Shakti Sanctuary looked as though someone had disinfected paradise and put it up for rent. Sunlit floorboards the color of honey. Music that breathed rather than played. Eucalyptus behaving itself. People barefoot on neat islands of rubber, chatting in the fluent grammar of joints that cooperated with them. Lycra clung to bodies designed by patient gods.

“Hi! First time?”

“Uh—yeah.” The voice he used sounded like a man buying contraband.

“Great, you’ll need a mat. We rent them, or you can buy one.”

He opened his wallet too quickly, as if dignity were a purchase. The receptionist slid over a lurid purple rectangle with a price tag that made him dizzy.

“Enjoy,” she said.

The mat weighed less than a grocery bag ... but more than his entire dignity. In the doorway he tugged at his waistband, then caught himself tugging and stopped. Tugging was not a hobby here.

And then Sasha walked in.

Tall without imposing, hair gathered like a kept promise. A loose tank that revealed a triangle of collarbone each time she turned. Leggings greened over with vines. Gravity negotiated with her privately; the room behaved when she moved.

“Welcome,” she said, eyes warming as if the word had been handpicked for him. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Words attempted a jailbreak and were caught. Sweat volunteered instead.

A corner offered shelter. The mat unrolled with the ceremonious care of a family heirloom laid out for strangers. Nobody looked at him; the idea of being seen pressed down anyway, heavy as weather. At the edges, a tuxedoed stage manager prowled—for him alone.