The Pottery Class

Grace signed up for pottery because her therapist said she needed a hobby that did not involve a screen. Jonah signed up because he had lost a bet. They were placed at neighbouring wheels in the corner of the studio, under a dripping skylight, and in the first session they both produced something the tutor kindly described as interesting.

By the third week they had developed a routine. He made terrible jokes about her lopsided cylinders. She made worse ones about his. They shared a bucket of slip and a towel and, eventually, a bench outside during the break, where they drank tea from mugs someone else had made and talked about everything except why they were really there.

She noticed his hands first. Broad, careful, always grey with clay to the wrist. He noticed the way she bit her lip when she centred the clay, and pretended not to.

In week seven the tutor had them work in pairs, one person's hands guiding the other's on the wheel. Jonah stood behind Grace, his arms around hers, his fingers over her fingers, and the clay rose between them into a tall, smooth curve. Neither of them breathed. The bowl collapsed the moment he stepped back.

'Again?' he asked, very quietly.

They stayed late to clean the wheels. They did not clean the wheels. Grace remembered, afterwards, the cool of the clay on her skin where his hands had been, and the warmth of everything else.

At the final session they each glazed one piece. Hers was a crooked mug. So was his. They swapped them, and they still drink from them every morning.