Exercising offered no incentive. Nothing immediate, anyway. She had tried less orthodox kinds, like climbing trees and using the Hula Hoop. Stretching, walking, bowling: it all came to naught. Until yoga. Well, not so much yoga as one specific pose that she thought of as yoga; she would stand, back straight, twisted at the hips some 15 or 20 degrees with her head turned the same direction so her chin closed in on the shoulder. She struck this pose more than a dozen times a day now. No, this wasn't exercise, she knew, but it felt good anyway, which was more than could be said of jogging in place or trying a push-up.
On a Saturday evening when the air was dusting windshields with baby drops the meaning went silent and her body contracted from the pose at first through some strange cowardice of the knees, but then from loss of concentration because concentration had turned towards the words which bore traces of a philosophy but sounded a recrimination. She figured she could answer "No, you're right" with either the confidence of a determinist or the shame of a busted teenager, but what she wanted now was to inscribe her name in the mist that sedated all the shatter-proof glass.
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