A twenty-something with a Well-behaved Women Rarely Make Herstory bumper sticker on her sky-blue Subaru guzzled a kombucha just before yoga class. The liquid still sloshing in her stomach, she assumed the Cow-cat asana fifteen minutes later. The red-bearded driver of a battered black Ford F-150 parked next to the yogini’s Subaru and headed toward the Freedom Guns and Ammo store, two doors down from the yoga studio. Upon turning off the Christian death-metal he had been listening to, he paused with his keys in his hand. From the cab of his truck he could hear her ginger-kelp kombucha sloshing. Beholding the alluring rear of her temple enclosed in paisley-printed spandex he was inspired to push open the door to the small studio and stick his head just inside the entrance. The effects of the two red cannabis oil chewies consumed the night before had yet to wear off. As the polished brass bells in the threshold tinkled, the sandalwood incense hit him. He fixed her in his bearded gaze from the army-green brim of his These Colors Don’t Run baseball cap.
Baby, is that kombucha singing inside of you or am I asleep and having a wet dream?
Looking up, she saw that he was rudely addressing herself and no one else among the five practitioners flexing on all fours. Her inner peace yielded to disgust as the prana ebbed.
Excuse me but if you are talking to me, your patriarchal, misogynistic comment makes bigoted cisgender assumptions about my sexual identity, she replied.
Hey honey, just tryin’ to be nice. Don’t blow a gasket now. I could hear you from my truck…
Believe it or not, this is how my parents met.
They were married on Oahu seventeen years ago.