I arrived at work to find Helen in the kitchen. She had pinned a leaflet to the notice board. What do you think? Her tone was light, yet precise. It was the familiar warm, but wavering invitation to enter her space. Only a few months ago this scenario would have concluded, later in the day or when Gareth was at lunch, back in her room. But things had changed and, as if I had to continually register my acceptance of this, I took a deep, audible breath and peered over at the leaflet. In fact, I peered over as if the whole concept of leaflets, notice boards, kitchens, as if the whole lot were beyond me. A meditation class? Can't make Tuesdays, I'm afraid. Well it's not meant for you, is it? The warmth in her voice remained, as if to pass on to me some of the domestic calm she enjoys with her African lover. Did I detect a hint of pity? Well, you know what I think of meditation. Polishing a pair of shoes is more therapeutic. I was missing something. I looked again at the leaflet. Oh, you are running the meditation class! Was she qualified? I kept that to myself, or thought I had. I did a two day workshop, she said.  And as she spoke about the lack of regulation in the practice of meditation, I followed the rhythm of her words, but not the meaning. In this mild trance I looked again at the leaflet as if to ground myself. Instead, I pictured Karen doing the camel. Without knowing why I thrust my hands into my pockets and, scooping up some coins said, Ok, I'll come to the meditation class. But it's not for you, she said again. I sensed her keen pleasure in saying this. Were her lips tingling? I leaned towards her, laughing. And maybe this moment contained everything between us- her rejection of me, her preciousness, my persistence, my absurdity- for she laughed too. For a moment, we were racked with it. And somewhere, between the back of my closed eyes and my heaving belly, soul cleaved in. A moment later I straightened up, opening my eyes, sharply aware that I would, actually, be at the meditation class on Tuesday.