Of course he isn't coming.

The text sits on my screen: "something came up, sorry, next week I promise." Something came up. Something always comes up. He signed us up for this, made the gesture, paid the deposit, wore the accomplishment for a whole weekend, and now he's in the garage or at work or wherever "something" lives, and here I am in the new set: white yoga top, pink yoga pants, the one I picked out this morning for a class we'd attend together but here I am standing on my mat alone while couples pair off around me.

I'm irritated, and I'm allowed to be, but the irritation has nowhere to go and no one to perform it for, so I fold it up and put it away the way I put away everything.

Fine. I paid. I'll stay. I'll do the class alone, next to the wall, and I'll be gracious about it, because I am always gracious about it.

Then I see you.

Near the back, on a mat, clearly abandoned by the same kind of text I just received. A familiar face. My friend's son, standing there stiff as new furniture, a man who has never once in his life performed this particular ritual, left holding a spot he paid for just like me.

Oh my gosh, am I glad to see you here! How is your mom doing?

Wait... what are you doing alone in a couple' yoga class?