With one brave breath, I pushed the warehouse door aside, soot collecting on my gloves upon contact with the cold metal.
The air was hot and muggy like summer inside, yet outside there was a wet chill of spring. The kiln was red, the light peeking from the seams of the metal door, heating the dim space and filling it with the smell of hot clay.
Arkady stood at the mouth like a knight containing a dragon, ready to slay it should it find itself on the other side of the door.
His arms glistened with a balm of sweat and dust, and clay cracked along his forearms, stopping abruptly where his sleeves had been rolled. Except, there was no shirt. Just a men’s undershirt, suspenders hanging at his hips, and his pants filthy as if they hadn’t been pressed and cleaned before he left home.
My mouth was agape, and it snapped shut the minute he looked back.
His figure burned into my irises when I looked away at the dim corners, a weak attempt at nonchalance.
“Are you all right?” It could be a hopeful illusion, but I thought his voice held concern.
I shrugged, finally looking back at him. He wiped his hands on a cloth as he approached, slinging it over his shoulder.
“Must something be wrong for me to visit?”
“I assumed there were better things to do.” His eyes strayed to my basket, a small, dimpled smirk flashing before his gaze returned to mine. “A gift?”
“No . . .”
He tipped the lid of the basket open before I could snatch it away.
A slow, mocking scowl found its place as he tipped his head. “Ah, I see. A request?”
“I thought you’d be hungry.” I turned from him, smacking the basket down onto a small stray table. “Don’t be so smug.”
Carving tools, lumps of clay, some bricks, and a metal pail of slick were also piled upon the table, surely too dirty to eat on.
“Is that all?” he asked, his voice by my ear, his arms coming into view from behind as he reached around, stealing a kumquat from the basket.
My fingers gripped the edge of the table, face beginning to feel red on its own, unaided by the firing kiln. I affixed a smile to my face before turning around. “I was curious.”
He took a bite out of the small fruit, raising his brow.
“If we are to get along,” I started, leaning back against the table, “we should get to know one another. It’s the natural, sophisticated thing to do.”
“Sophisticated?” he mumbled as he chewed. “Is that so?”
“W-well”—my breath caught—“your thing”—I gestured to the kiln—“it’s impressive. I wanted to know more about what it is you do.”
He glanced over his shoulder at it, shrugging. “It’s in need of repair.”
“Is that why it’s so hot in here?” I tugged at my collar.
“I have to fire it to see where it may need patching. A small flame is enough to find the holes.” He glanced back down at me. “Why the sudden interest?”
“I’m making an effort.” I glared. “If you don’t want it, then fine! I don’t have to try any more than you—”
He grabbed my wrist before I could move away. “You give up too easily.”
“I don’t understand how to talk to you! I haven’t had much practice.” It was only half a joke.
“How about we skip talking?” His hand on my wrist loosened, his fingers trailing down to meet mine. “I could show you.”
“Show me? I see it.” I gestured grandly to the statues.
“What good is seeing the product when you don’t understand the material?”
