“We could be twins,” she said. Twins because we wore the same black and pink outfits. I was older and thirty pounds heavier, which is why I’d signed up for zumba. She’s this itty bitty thing, a ponytail pulled so tight, I thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head. We waited in front of the mirror for the instructor. She filled me in about her aunt who’d raised two sets of twins. Every week Cathy updated me in five-minute segments. Shared bits about a guy from her work who’d sailed to Mexico because he was writing about hot-air balloon vacations. Or a neighbor who sold his ice-cream truck route in downtown Beverly Hills for $100,000, or someone with two tiny uteruses who was going to be interviewed by People Magazine. “Was that your aunt?” I asked, thinking about what she’d said. She didn’t answer. “Time for our warm-ups.” After awhile, she stopped coming to class. I’m on the elliptical now and feeling like a Clydesdale horse. Clop. Clop. Clop. Still haven’t lost that weight.
