Page 12 of The Games We Play

Typing in a name I’ve allowed myself to forget for the last decade.

Seamus Matthews.

5

NAOMI

So, Seamus Matthews is an apparent ghost and appears literally nowhere.

I searched every social media platform, every search engine, and zilch. I felt like a traitor to myself and the thousands of dollars I’ve spent on therapy every time I typed in his name on a different site. I got more and more frustrated with each dead end, which just fed more into the desperation that I’ve paid so much to manage.

You’d think with my go with the flow,love the one you're withattitude I’d be carefree and loose about this whole thing, but no. I’ve opened up the floodgates and now I can’t stop.

I know I need to go back to Afterburn. I need to go back and ask for him. He’ll get the message. I know he will.

So just stop, Naomi.

As I scold myself and put my phone down, I recall the way he said my name. The name I haven’t gone by since that summer.

His voice was laced with so much confusion, a little happiness, and even lust,maybe.

Mimi.

I always loved the way he said my name. It wasn’t unlike how everyone else did, but the way he said it was with such adoration and appreciation.

Okay, stop.

I am literally a trained professional at clearing my mind, but here comes Seamus Matthews, making an appearance for fifteen seconds—after a decade of being non-existent—and I’m that seventeen-year-old, insecure girl again.

It’s official. I am triggered. Seamus Matthews is my trigger.

I finish my morning green tea and open the sliding glass door to step into my backyard.

My serenity.

No matter how many places in the world I’ve been to, this quaint little space in my own backyard provides a peace my body craves daily.

The back fence is lined with lush trees that rival the deepest forest green color palette. The cul-de-sac my house is on is sheltered from the hustling, downtown Seattle commotion, and the large outdoor bird bath with a waterfall fountain provides a stream of nature’s white noise.

It’s nothing extravagant, but it’s my private oasis. I spend more time out here than I do inside my house.

Rolling my mat onto the patio, I hand brush it flat, clearing away any debris, then step out of my flip flops while simultaneously grabbing the hem of my crop top and pulling it off. I toss it on one of the lounge chairs then tuck my thumbs into the elastic waistband of my harem pants, letting those fall easily to my ankles, before kicking the loose, flowy fabric onto the same chair with my shirt.

The cold, crisp air kisses my exposed skin and sends goosebumps down my entire body.

It’s not officially winter yet, but after Thanksgiving, there is a distinct shift in the weather here. Almost like it knowsChristmas is coming. And although it doesn’t snow in Seattle, we have cool, wet winters, and it’s one of my favorite seasons.

Well, they all are. I love the changing of them. The colors, the sensation in the climate. The shift of the drier, more dense air, to the cooler, humid air.

I suck in a deep breath and circle my arms over my head, pushing my fingers toward the sky, giving myself a full body stretch before kneeling down at the back of my mat.

It’s natural to go through my warm up stretches, circling my wrists, arms, neck and ankles. Then moving into back arches and rolling my shoulders and hips side to side.

The breeze floats around my skin like a comfort blanket, and I recall the first time I did yoga out here. It was the middle of summer, and I had on leggings and a tank top that felt like a thermal turtleneck. It was hot, restricting, and I hated it. So, I stripped down to my sports bra and underwear, and I’ve never gone back.

It’s my own personal space, no one can see me. So, why not?

I flow through my poses, holding each one as long as my breath will allow. Moving fluidly between each. Sometimes I have a plan, using this time to create a class flow in my head, and others I just move wherever my body needs to. That feels most natural and easy.

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