At the only light in town, I sit stopped in my car and watched. On the right side, firemen worked on a big, shiny red firetruck.

On the left side, women spill out the back door of the yoga studio.

The men wear black uniforms—all I can really see is black, and leather and metal.

The women wear black yoga pants, consistently, but their tops and jackets, their shoes, are turquoise and fuscia and violet.  They are lava lamp colors, and look just as loose and fluid.

I need to pull over, I cannot just drive away from this scene. These women just did yoga, their mission to improve their ability to stretch, flex, balance, which of course, they already do; they are women.

The men’s mission is to do something to this truck, the softest thing about them is the white cloths in their hands, but their hands are so big and they have so much more metal and leather in their way, worn on their own bodies, that I don’t know if they can get at the truck the way they need to.

Many of the women are breaking up into sets of twos and threes, talking to one another, laughing easily and aloud.

The firemen, though singular in their focus, work silently, moving their clothes in concentric circles, silently.

The light turns green and I have to leave them all.