I turn to him, my whole face aching from the sheer size of my smile, ready for him to be as thrilled as I am. But when I look at him, the thrilled smile I expect to see just isn’t there.
Zachary looks worried. Not annoyed, not bored—worried. His brow is furrowed, and the edges of his mouth are pulled down slightly. It's a look I’ve seen on him a lot lately, usually when he’s watching me struggle to open a bottle of water or push past a particularly intense wave of fatigue.
“Maya,” he says, his voice soft, almost hesitant. He pauses, stopping me with a gentle hand on my shoulder. “That’s such a generous, thoughtful idea. It really is. But you want to doallthose pots tonight?”
“Well, we can start tonight! We don’t have to finish all thirty. We can come back for the glaze.” I brush past him, walking the last few steps to the building, unlocking the door, and stepping inside. The air in the studio is heavier than outside, full of creative potential.
He follows me in, not closing the door yet, just leaning against the frame, his hands deep in the pockets of his corduroy jacket.
“That’s going to be a lot of work for one night. Even if we don’t glaze them tonight.”
“But they’re small pots! Little thumb-sized planters! They’ll be super-fast. I can get into a rhythm, I swear.” I’m rummaging through a box for a clean apron, the fabric smelling faintly of plaster and linseed oil.
He takes a slow, steadying breath. “And how have you been feeling this week, Maya?”
My hands still. The question, delivered without accusation, still feels like a physical check. The side effects from the medication—the nausea and the headaches—they’ve mostly ebbed now. But the sheer, mind-numbing fatigue? That’s gotten worse. It’s a constant, heavy blanket draped over me, making my limbs feel like concrete.
A few times this past week, after a full, exhausting day of teaching, Zachary has had to help me carry my work bag—which, granted, is usually full of tons of heavy art projects, supplies, and a laptop—to my car. He’s started taking it as soon as we leave the building, knowing I’ll just try to argue if he waits for me to struggle. He’s also offered to make me dinner several times, telling me to just come straight to his apartment and crash on his couch while he cooks. Because of that, I’ve been spending more time at his apartment than my own, and it already feels like home. His place smells like Earl Grey tea and old books, a surprisingly cozy combination.
“I’m fine,” I say, pulling the apron over my head, tying the strings tightly around my waist. The white cloth is a good armor. “Better, actually. The nausea is down.”
“That’s good,” he says, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward me slowly, deliberately. “But thetiredisn’t. You look exhausted right now, Maya. You’ve been running on fumes for weeks. Is pushing yourself to throw thirty small pots—plus the big one—in one session really feasible, given how tired you’ve been?” He reaches out and gently touches my arm, his thumb tracing a small circle on my sleeve. “I’m not trying to be a jerk, I promise. I just don’t want you laid up for three days because you overdid it tonight.”
His honesty is a punch to the gut. Not because it’s mean, but because it’s true. It’s the truth I’ve been trying to outrun with this surge of creative mania. I sigh, pulling a large block of clay from the damp storage bin. It’s cool and heavy in my hands.
“You’re probably right,” I admit, the words tasting bitter. I slam the clay down on the bench with a thud that echoes in the quiet studio.
“God, I’m so frustrated,” I burst out. I start aggressively kneading the clay,wedgingit, a process meant to force out air bubbles, but I’m using it right now to expel my anger. “I just want to overdo it! I want to stay up all night and work! I want to throw every single pot and feel that glorious exhaustion that comes frommakingsomething, not from my body just… eating itself.” I don’t look at him. I can’t. The tears are closer than I’d like to admit. “I just want to benormalfor an hour.”
He lets me work out my frustration on the clay, the slap-slap-slap sound the only noise in the room for a moment. Then he steps beside me, mirroring my posture, and starts wedging his own block of clay. He’s clumsy, not an experienced sculptor, but he’s trying.
“I know you do,” he says softly. “And I see how inspired you are right now. It’s amazing, Maya. It’s beautiful. I don’t want to stifle that.”
I glance over at him and see the truth of his words on his face. He’s not trying to be mean or to manage me. He’s being honest, real.
“So, here’s the deal,” he says, giving me a half-smile—the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes my heart do a soft skip. “You do all the pots. Every single one of them. Tonight, tomorrow, whenever you can fit it in over the next few days. You get to ride that creative wave. But in return, you have to let me do your tedious admin work for the next two days. All those supply forms and participation logs that need to be digitized and entered into the spreadsheet. Everything.”
I stop kneading. My hands are coated in cool, gray clay. “Zachary… you can’t. That’s hundreds of little checkboxes and signatures!”
“I know. But it’s rote data entry, right? It’s mindless and tedious, and it’s a killer on your hands and wrists when you’re already exhausted. I’m good at that kind of meticulous, repetitive task—it’s the scientist in me. It’ll give your hands a break from the keyboard and the mouse. You can focus your energy on centering the clay instead of entering fifty sets of parent initials. How does that sound?”
My breath hitches. It’s the most thoughtful, practical, loving gesture I can imagine. Data entry is exactly the kind of repetitive, low-impact but high-fatigue task that flares my joint pain. The sheer generosity of the offer is overwhelming.
“That sounds like you’re the best person I know,” I whisper, dropping the clay on the bench. I step right into his space, my clay-covered hands reaching around his neck, careful not to smear it on him. He doesn't flinch; he just wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me close.
I kiss him gratefully. He tilts his head, deepening the connection, and the worry lines around his eyes soften, replaced by that gentle warmth I love.
“Thank you,” I murmur against his mouth. “But you have to promise to use the correct student ID format.”
He laughs, a rich, chest-deep sound. “I promise to use the correct student ID format. Now, let’s get this clay centered. You’re going to show me how to make these pots, remember?”
“Right. The master class.” I pull back, a huge, genuine smile back on my face, the fatigue briefly chased away by his kindness.
I wash my hands quickly and then lead him to the wheel, grabbing two low stools. I pull out my phone and pull up an image of a tiny, perfectly formed succulent pot—uncomplicated, with a nice, wide rim.
“Okay, first, you need to center the clay. This is the hardest part. The whole goal is to make the lump perfectly still. You’re pressing down with the heel of your dominant hand and using your non-dominant hand as a brace on the side. You have to push firmly, but gently, meeting the pressure of the spinning wheel.”
I show him first, demonstrating the steady push-down, the way my arms anchor against my hips to prevent wobbling, the rhythmic sound of the motor and the soft, squishy noise of the clay being wrestled into submission. I make a clean, centered mound look easy.
