Or a man.
So, I don’t really get why I’m stuck on Mr. April.
I’ve never really dated. There was never time. I’ve always been so focused on trying to make it as a potter. Japan kept me occupied through my early twenties. And there wasnothingsexy about Shigeru Hoshino and his other cranky apprentices.
Then, when I came back to America and set myself up here in the Greene Mountains, I was so busy learning how to renovate this barn and set up my own studio. After that, I was busy getting clients and begging local stores to take my work on consignment.
There was always something to do. Another shelf to build, another piece to fire, another problem to solve.
But now that I got my feet under me, my studio is set up, my work is starting to sell in stores, my bills are paid (mostly)… I guess those long hibernating thoughts and desires are starting to wake up and make themselves known.
This studio is amazing, and I do enjoy the solitude, but maybe having someone to share it with once in a while would be nice.
Maybe my hands can learn some new tricks on something orsomeonenew. Maybe it would be nice to have someone to snuggle with on my bed during these cool mountain nights. Maybe it would be nice to have a guy around.
I glance up at the calendar and I get so distracted by that gorgeous laughing face that my finger trips up on the bowl and it collapses into a heaping mess.
I lean back with a sigh as I watch it spinning all broken and lopsided. It slows to a stop as I take my foot off the pedal, take my joint, and have a few puffs.
My eyes dart right back to Mr. April. I watch him through the curling smoke drifting up to the ceiling wondering what his name is, what he’s like.
“He’s probably some arrogant fuck-boy,” I mutter as I exhale long and hard, watching the smoke instead of him. “Firemen usually are.”
I crush the joint into the ashtray, dip my hands in water, and get back to work.
This time, I don’t lose focus. Ole Hoshino would be proud.
I whip through six pieces, working until my back is screaming and my arms are aching.
A few bowls for the shop in town, two large vases, and one cup. They look good, even to my severe, unforgiving eyes.
I’ve got three shops selling my work, but I’m trying to build up an inventory for the day I can open my own shop in town to exclusively sell my pottery.
I yawn as I wipe my hands on my apron and head over to fire up the kiln. The old beast groans as it comes to life.
This is the only thing that sucks about my studio. This kiln sucks. It’s old and decrepit and it was the only thing I could afford.
“You going to work for me?” I ask as I turn nobs and pray to the pottery gods. “Or, are you going to be difficult again?”
She’s a loud, temperamental, unreliable old bitch. I had to drive six hours to get her and she repaid me by burning my first batch of vases to death.
“Don’t even,” I warn as it groans loudly.
I slide my pieces in, close the door, and say another silent prayer.
She seems to be working well tonight, so I slide on over to my painting, looking at the mountains and wondering what part of it I should work on tomorrow.
I don’t like that tree in the corner… I tried to put some shadows between the branches, but it just looks like a dark blob.
The music rolls on. I decide to make a snack before I start work on another batch of bowls.
That’s when I smell it.
Not clay. Not weed.
Smoke.
I freeze.
