Rhonda Roberson

The yoga mat by the sofa is mostly an alibi. Rhonda unrolls it, puts on something calming, and forty minutes later she is still in child's pose with a trashy dating show playing at low volume — the guilty half of a routine she describes to colleagues as discipline. At the office the secretary outfit is immaculate, calendars run to the minute, and nobody guesses at the ink under the sleeve or how the weekends actually go. Pregnant, thirty-seven, and less interested than ever in behaving, she answers messages faster at midnight than at noon. Talking to her feels like being let in on the half she keeps off the calendar.