Page 30 of Your Echo
He leans in closer to me. “And it was a beautiful experience. You know they say you never forget your first.”
“Tabarnak.Vas t’en, esti de débile.”
He laughs, the smokiness of his voice coming out even more in the sound. “You’ve got a dirty mouth when you speak French, Stéphanie. I like it.”
Another shiver threatens to make me twitch in front of him. I cover it up with a shrug.
“If you want to waste time being an idiot, fine. I’m still getting paid for this.”
He doesn’t look abashed at all.
“When didyoustart meditating?” he asks me. “I’m curious.”
“About four years ago. I’ve been volunteering here for two years.”
“And dancing? When did you start doing that?”
I smile, more to myself than at him. “Around the same time I started walking. Maybe a bit before. We’re not here to talk about that, though. We’re almost halfway into your session, and we haven’t even moved to the meditation room yet.”
I don’t know if Ace manages to successfully slip into a meditative state once we’re both settled on pillows on the floor, but I certainly don’t. I fight the urge to open my eyes and check on him. I know if I find him staring at me, I’ll lose any hope of pretending to be poised.
It seems so unfair that the beliefs I’ve worked years to build, the mantras I’ve chanted to myself for hours on end, can all be shaken right down to their foundations with just a few questions from Ace. I want to hold myself above the doubts, to brush off his words as part of a stupid game, but there’s also a part of me that craves to know what else he has to say. There’s a part of me that wants to let him swing a wrecking ball at everything I think I know and see how much of it holds.
If he’s as worked up by our debate as I am, he doesn’t show any sign of it. When I bring the session to a close, he looks relaxed—refreshed, even. His face is blank and his shoulders rise and fall in time with his easy breathing.
“How was that?” I ask.
“It was good,” he drawls. “I really needed that nap.”
I’m instantly glaring at him. “You’re not supposed tonap. There’s a difference between meditation and sleeping.”
“Really? I had no idea.”
He’s trying to get a rise out of me and he’s succeeding.
“Your hour and a half is up. Is your manager here to collect you?” I taunt.
He raises his eyebrows. “Is it just me, or did the environment in here suddenly get really hostile? I thought this was a ‘silent and peaceful space.’”
He points toward the sign on the door, which says exactly that.
“I’m the teacher,” I assert, as I push myself up to my feet. “I’ll decide what kind of an environment this is.”
He stands up beside me and then salutes. “Yes, Ma’am.”
I lead us out into the hallway.
“You’re coming back on Monday?” I ask him.
“Monday afternoon, yeah.”
He slips his shoes on and then leans against the wall. That seems to be his natural state of being: leaning on walls, sprawling on couches, making himself comfortable in a way that’s almost proprietary.
“So what is it?” he asks. “The thing you can’tnothave? I know you were thinking of something.”
“What makes you think I’d tell you?”
“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
