Cold open examples: three first times, on the page

The studio smells like eucalyptus and other people's confidence. I put my mat in the back corner, close to the door, where no one has to look at me. Everyone else unrolls theirs like they've done this a thousand times. Mine is stiff and bright blue and keeps curling at the edges, so I stand on one end and kick the other flat.

In the front row, a woman folds forward like a letter sliding into an envelope. I watch her longer than I should.

The teacher says something about arriving, about setting an intention. My intention is to still be standing when this is over. A singing bowl hums somewhere behind us. Then the teacher says, "Whenever you're ready, come down to hands and knees," and my hands are already shaking before I've asked them to move.

The corral smells like sunscreen and banana peel. I'm in the last group, behind a man dressed as a taco, close enough to the back fence that I can read the sign on the portable toilets.

Everyone around me is stretching like they have a plan. I'm pulling at the paper number on my chest, which has already come unpinned on one corner. Four safety pins, and I used all of them. Last night I wrote my mother's phone number on the back in marker, in case.

In case of what, I couldn't tell you.

Somewhere ahead a speaker crackles. People start to clap, and the clapping rolls back toward us like weather. The taco man turns, grins, and says, "First one?" I nod, because my voice is somewhere near my shoes.

The crowd shuffles. Then it doesn't shuffle. Then it moves, and my foot is already over the line...

Yesterday I was someone who fixed things. Today the nameplate on the door says something different, and I can't tell yet whether it's true.

There are six chairs around the table and six people who were my friends on Friday. None of them look up when I come in. I rehearsed the first sentence in the car, in the elevator, and in the bathroom mirror, and it still sounds like a lie in my mouth.

Someone has left a donut on my chair. A joke or a gift. I can't tell which, and that feels like the whole job.

I set down my notebook, the good one I bought for today, and notice my palm has left a damp print on the cover. Priya clears her throat. Marcus checks his phone. The meeting begins when I say it begins. I open my mouth, and...