Balancing Acts by Zoe Fishman Page A

dogs!” she mumbled under her breath. Her quads were on fire from class. Yoga might be a bitch to master, but at least you knew it was working something.
    Once on the street, she eyed the grocery store up ahead warily. There was something about picking out her food under the glare of fluorescent lighting and navigating aisles that felt like—and probably were—two feet wide that made her feel depressed. On the other hand, watching her money swirl down the drain every time she ordered takeout made her feel even worse. She took a deep breath and entered the store, tabulating a list in her head and strategizing the quickest way to get what she needed and get out.
    The best part about this is that once I get it over with, I don’t have to think about it again for the whole week, Sabine reminded herself. Once inside, she made a beeline for the vegetables. After that, a quick swipe of some milk, some cereal, veggie burgers, cheese. . .she was almost done. She made her way to the chicken, thinking about grilling some up for dinner. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the premade rotisseries, glistening seductively. For a moment, she hesitated.
    Premade rotisserie does not count as cooking, Sabine, she reprimanded herself. She continued to eye it. But chopping vegetables for a salad does! She put down the chicken breasts and grabbed the ready-made bird, along with some vegetables.
    She surveyed her cart. It was missing her favorite low-cal ice cream bars. She circled back around and tossed a box into her cart. She glanced at her phone. Less than fifteen minutes. Record time! Now, she only had to make it through the checkout line and—the worst part of the entire ordeal—walk the four blocks home carrying her cumbersome bags. Luckily, nothing was too heavy. She couldn’t count the number of times she had been convinced that her forearm was going to snap off under the weight of poorly packed grocery bags. Living in New York was filled with gigantic obstacles every day, not the least of which was carrying home your damn groceries.
    As Sabine pushed her cart to the checkout line, she noticed a very nice tush on a tallish guy standing by the vegetables. High and tight. She attempted a subtle once-over of the rest of him. Wait, is it!? Nooo. Oh shit! It is! The purple hooded sweatshirt peeking out from the top of his jacket gave him away. Her heart plummeted into her shoes. It was Subway Crush. But not on the subway. The very notion that he could exist somewhere outside of the underground tunnels of Manhattan was wild.
    Sabine attempted to quiet her racing heart with some yoga breathing. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe in for five counts. One, two, three, four, five, she instructed herself, as her rib cage contracted. Now let it out. One, two, three, four, five. Sabine exhaled deeply. She did feel better.
    She opened her eyes. He was gone! Nooooooooooo! She wanted to scream. She looked around, hoping that maybe he had just darted down an aisle to grab something before checking out. Nothing.
    Sabine pushed her cart to the line, feeling defeated. She had closed her eyes for only ten seconds! Literally, ten seconds. Maybe Subway Crush is just a figment of my imagination, she thought. What if he doesn’t exist at all, and is just a reminder of my lameness?
    She began to pull her groceries out of her cart and place them on the belt. As she reached in for the chicken, a voice behind her asked, “Are those any good?”
    â€œYou know, I think they’re pretty delicious,” she answered, not turning to face the questioner until she had released the bird.
    Holy shitttttt! Holy shit cowballs shit gahhhhhhhhh! she thought to herself, as she subtly tried to avoid collapsing in disbelief. It was him. He had a voice. He could speak. He was talking to her. To her!!! She tried desperately to compose herself.
    He smiled at her, somewhat nervously. Up close, his face looked different. Better