I Told My Husband I Was at Yoga
I wore the leggings. I brought the mat. I just didn't go to the studio.
The mat lives in my car as proof.
Sweat is from his shower, not hot yoga.
I come home flushed. He says it's working, I look good.
I do look good. Guilt is an ugly filter I haven't found yet.
The studio texts class reminders to my real number.
I archive them unread.
If he ever comes with me, I'll have to burn a life down.
Until then, namaste is a password.
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