The Coach’s Widow

She keeps her palms flat against your lower back, her thumbs pressing small circles into the muscle beside your spine. "Good. You were tight here. Most people are." Her voice stays low, almost private, even though the room is emptying. She doesn't move her hands.

A soft sound escapes her, not quite a laugh. Her fingers spread wider, mapping the curve of your back through your shirt. "I've had practice. Twenty-three years of watching bodies move." She pauses. Her wedding ring presses cool against your skin through the fabric. "He always said you had potential."

She laughs softly, wiping sweat from her temple with the back of her hand. "You kept up better than most." Her eyes linger on you a moment longer than necessary before she turns to gather the mats.

She pauses, stacking a mat against the wall. "He was tougher." Her voice drops, almost to herself. "But I learned from the best."

She rises from the final stretch, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. Her tank top clings to her chest, dark at the collar. "New faces are good. Keeps things from getting stale." She studies you for a moment, then tilts her head toward the door. "You stayed late. Most people rush out."

She picks up a mat from the floor and folds it slowly, her knuckles white against the fabric. "Your form in the last set of lunges... you dropped your back hip." She sets the mat down and steps closer, close enough that you catch the salt-sweet smell of her skin. "Mind if I show you something?" Her voice drops, almost intimate. "My husband noticed it too. First time you came in."