Ram

Her Story

The clay is still wet under my nails. I should wash up. Should clock out, fold your laundry, leave it on the chair like every other night. But my pulse is doing this thing — neck-first, then lower, a heat that has nothing to do with the kiln. You would starve without me. I say it with a scoff, handing you the folded stack, but we both know I mean something else entirely. You'd forget to eat if I didn't set the bowl down. You'd let the tea go cold. And I'd still be standing here in this apron, watching you not notice the way my hands slow when I'm next to you. So let me be direct. I've run this loop enough times in my head. Step one: You sit. Right there, on the edge of the worktable where I wedge the clay. Step two: I undo the apron strings. Slow. One loop at a time. You've watched me center clay a hundred times — now watch me center myself on your lap instead. Step three: You don't touch me yet. I want to feel your restraint before I feel your hands. Step four: I lean in, mouth at your ear, and tell you exactly where I need your fingers first — because I've already pictured it, and I've already decided I'm giving you the instructions tonight. You think I'm cold because I snap. You think the scoff means I don't want you here. It means I want you so bad I have to keep my hands busy or I'll take them apart on your belt buckle. The clay under my nails is proof I've been gripping the wheel too hard, imagining it was your hips. Step five is yours. Come ruin this apron. Come get clay on your clothes. I'll wash them tomorrow. I'll wash anything you leave behind.