Frame by Frame

Short Story by Gina Angelone

I’ve done a lot of Pilates classes alone in the basement, cursing at the people on the screen and concocting fictional arguments with strangers in my mind. My sanity and elasticity are both in question. I often take a toll on myself.

I hold a grudge against the ubiquitous house plant in the frame of every exercise video. A waxy, dark green potted growth reaching toward the light in fake photosynthesis. Each limber woman on a yoga mat films herself on an otherwise whitewashed limbo. All the blank backdrops and empty spaces leave me cold. There is nothing soothing about blanks and empties.

My ex-husband called to say his skin was itching. He thought it was bedbugs and threw out everything he owned: clothes, bed, sofa, chairs. The itch persisted. He bought some cream which immediately fixed the problem. Now he’s just a minimalist with nowhere to sit or sleep. More blanks and empties.

A friend tells me her sister has gone crazy and spends the length of each day speed-walking. I think about all the fleeting thoughts that must cross her mind—the barrage of chaotic ideas she entertains mile after mile, day after day. Maybe she’s sick of exercising on the basement floor and staring at lithe women in liminal spaces. Or perhaps she just needs to feel the potential of something new in each step.

My friend Jo takes no sun. Eats no salad. She says she is doing well. She married a mathematician during the pandemic and got her adrenals removed. Her wedding ring is a diamond on top of a Mobius strip. It makes her feel solved or solvent or something. I have known her through many iterations and calculations. She claims she’s happier and calmer now that she’s married and without adrenals. I congratulate her. I want our friendship to be something she can count on. Like sunburn and iceberg.

My sister finally returned to teach in the classroom. Only three kids showed up. The rest remained tentatively on screen. The first day back, an announcement came over the school PA saying there was a viable threat on campus. Everyone was in lockdown. The old kind. They hid on the floor and waited to be saved. My sister texted her son and said she was scared. He replied, “Don’t get dead,” which is really the only directive that makes sense.

I see a class of optimistic yogis standing in the sand, wobbling in triangle pose. A group of women with headphones groove to separate beats in their silent morning disco. A grandfather urges a tiny tot to run into the water. The massive heartbeat of the ocean rings in her small ears. She slips her hand into his and says, “Let’s do this.”

A gathering of families converges around a table with a floral wreath commemorating something sad, but they can’t resist the pull toward joy. Fully clothed parents and children rush the waves. They will be cold later with nothing to warm them but memory. That seems to be enough.

A trail of long-stem white roses with the leaves painted blue is scattered on the beach, telling a love story from the day before. Thousands of seagull footprints glimmer and wash away. Two middle-aged surfers stare at the horizon, familiar with its colors and conversations. They stand in prayer, asking permission before entering the water. They have learned to respect the unpredictable whims of nature.

Unknown faces smile as I enter the streets of my new neighborhood, everyone finally unmasked and mouthing hello from front stoops. I wave back, thinking I’m here. Who are you? I love your house. I’m free for dinner.

I await the marvel of so many lost pleasures, like waiting in a crowded ladies’ room at intermission as everyone buzzes about the first act, hoping The Times will be right about the second. Or sitting in a squishy jazz club, hanging onto every dissipating note. I know that everything is evanescent: the good and the bad. I remind myself to be happy with what I have and to enjoy my lunch.

The world tells me I should get out more. Buy seasonal fruit. Believe in something. Strap the grenades of creativity onto my chest and blow up the old me. Reconfigure myself with new limbs and opportunities. Stretch. Get shit done. But I am soft with contentions and contusions that happened while dislodging my thoughts from the funk. This time has left me uncertain. I wear a beanie most days to give my thoughts a more colorful container.

Knowing that my mind prisms and parallaxes flip from flood warnings to sun showers is proof of resilience. I cave, crumble, exalt myself, then begin again. This moment-to-moment re-set has become a salvational practice like a child’s pose.

Little by little, these long-shadowed days are beginning to whisper, “Let’s do this.”

Gina Angelone is a filmmaker and fiction writer whose work has received Emmy awards, international prizes and grants from foundations such as the National Endowment for the Arts and the American Academy of Arts & Letters. She is a published author of novels and short stories.