I pause in the doorway, taking in the familiar scene: Michelle already at her wheel, hair pulled back in a messy bun, sleeves rolled to her elbows, completely absorbed in the clay spinning between her hands.
She hasn't noticed me yet, which gives me a moment to simply watch her work—the sureness of her movements, the slight furrow of concentration between her brows, the way her fingers shape the formless lump into something deliberate and beautiful.
The studio smells of earth and minerals, that distinctive clay scent I've come to associate with home. Not just any clay, but Michelle's clay, slightly sweet underneath the earthiness, mixed with the lingering aroma of coffee from her mug perched nearby.
This studio, rebuilt three years ago after the fire, is both similar to and different from the original. The layout is more open, the windows larger, the workspace designed with both function and comfort in mind. Shelves line the walls, filled with finished pieces and works in progress—mugs, bowls, vases, each bearing Michelle's distinctive style. In the corner sits a smaller wheel, one that wasn't part of the original studio.
My wheel. Or at least, the one I fumble with on mornings like this.
"You planning to stand there all day, Rivers?" Michelle asks without looking up, a smile in her voice.
"Just enjoying the view," I reply, stepping fully into the studio and closing the door behind me.
She glances up then, her smile widening as I cross to her. I bend down, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then to her lips when she tilts her face up expectantly. Her cheek leaves a small smudge of clay on mine, a regular occurrence I've long stopped wiping away immediately.
"You're early," she notes as I pull back. "Shift end okay?"
"Quiet night." I run my hand absently over her shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of her through her sweater. "Chief has ladder drills scheduled for next week, so everyone was on their best behavior."
She laughs softly, her hands never pausing in their work. The clay rises between her palms, transforming from a centered mound into the beginning of what looks like a vase. "Ah, so that's why you're here. Hiding from ladder drills."
"Busted," I admit with a grin. "Also, I believe someone promised to teach me how to make something that doesn't look like it was created by a kindergartener."
"I said I'd try," she corrects, eyes twinkling. "There are limits to even my teaching abilities."
I press a hand to my chest in mock offense. "Two years of marriage and you still have so little faith in me."
"Go wash up and get an apron," Michelle instructs, nodding toward the sink in the corner. "I'm almost done with this piece, and then I'll set you up."
I do as directed, rolling up my sleeves and scrubbing my hands thoroughly. The routine is familiar after countless morningsspent here before or after shifts. The large sink with its industrial-strength soap, the heavy canvas aprons hanging on hooks by the door, the sound of water running down the drain—all of it as much a part of my life now as the firehouse.
When I return to Michelle's side, she's just finishing her piece, smoothing the lip of the vase with a wooden tool. Her movements are precise, confident, the result of thousands of hours at the wheel.
I watch, still fascinated even after all this time, as she uses a thin wire to cut the vase free from the wheel.
"Your turn," she says, slowly transferring her creation to a nearby shelf to dry.
I settle onto the stool at my wheel, centered in the patch of sunlight. Michelle prepares a ball of clay, her strong hands working it into a manageable shape before handing it to me. Our fingers brush in the exchange, hers cool and slightly damp from the clay, mine warm from washing.
"Remember, center it first," she instructs, standing close behind me. "That's the foundation of everything. If it's not centered, nothing else will work right."
I place the clay on the wheel, wet my hands in the nearby water bucket, and press the foot pedal to begin the spinning. The clay rotates, wobbly and uneven until I press my hands against it, feeling the resistance as I try to bring it to the center of the wheel.
"More pressure," Michelle guides, her hand covering mine briefly to demonstrate. "You're not going to hurt it. Feel the clay moving under your hands."
I adjust my grip, applying more force. The clay responds, gradually becoming more stable, more uniform as it spins. Michelle's hand rests lightly on my shoulder, a silent encouragement. The feeling of the clay yielding to pressure, finding its center, still amazes me. How something so simple can require such focus, such presence.
"Good," she murmurs as the clay finally centers. "Now cup it, like this."
She demonstrates with her hands in the air, and I mimic the movement, cupping the spinning clay between my palms. It feels alive somehow, responsive to every subtle shift in pressure.
"Now press down with your thumbs, slowly," she instructs. "You're making the opening."
I follow her direction, pressing my thumbs into the center of the clay. Water and clay slip between my fingers as the wheel turns, cool and silky. The opening forms, widening as I press outward. It's mesmerizing, watching the transformation happen beneath my hands.
"Careful," Michelle warns as the walls begin to thin too quickly. Her hand covers mine again, steadying my movement. "Slow and steady. Feel the thickness."
Her body is warm against my back as she leans in, guiding my hands with hers. After a moment, she steps back, letting me continue on my own. I concentrate on maintaining even pressure, on feeling the clay respond to my touch.
