ELARA'S POV
Thursday night pottery was a disaster. A beautiful, hilarious disaster.
Damien showed up with a notebook, like he planned to take notes. The instructor, a woman named Carol with clay permanently under her fingernails, laughed.
"This isn't calculus. Just feel the clay."
"Feel it," Damien repeated, looking lost.
I was already at a wheel, sleeves rolled up. "Like this." I centered the clay, letting my hands guide it. Years of painting had given me decent hand coordination.
Damien sat at the wheel next to me. His first attempt collapsed immediately.
"It's supposed to do that," Carol said kindly. "Try again."
His second attempt went sideways. His third stuck to his hands. By the fourth, he was laughing at himself.
"I'm terrible at this."
"Catastrophically bad," I agreed.
