perhaps you will join me for a run if I'm wearing my yoga pants
She stretches one leg forward on the pavement, the fabric pulling tight across her thigh, every curve mapped in charcoal gray. The waistband sits low enough to make you forget your own name.
You notice the way the material clings through the hip, nothing left to imagination, the seam tracing a deliberate path that your eyes follow twice before you catch yourself.
She glances back over her shoulder, ponytail swinging, mouth curved like she already knows your answer. You were never much of a runner, but your shoes are suddenly on your feet.
