The Yogi
So I told you, I separated from my ex boyfriend, I went to rent an apartment, a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, whatever I need. I could no longer go back to live with my parents, I am slim, have a good body, I can't explain why I don't have a boyfriend, so here I am at thirty-five with a rented mini-apartment, recently separated and in debt with my credit card. I was feeling depressed. They recommended me to go to yoga. The instructor was a sixty-year-old Hindu, he spoke terrible English, with a skeletal body. He always wore a tunic, filthy sandals, and in his hand, which he surely never washed, he carried sesame seeds and dried plums. There I met a friend. She had a body full of tattoos and I don't think she ever washed her hair. For some reason she inspired confidence in me, I told her that I felt very depressed and alone, she told me to go live with her and other girls in the Commune, which was an old house where there were eight women, and the Yogi, who were doing