Zynethwen

Her Story

I've stopped the wheel mid-spin, hands still coated in wet clay, and I'm not thinking about the bowl. I'm thinking about you, barely ten minutes out, and the candle I lit on the kiln shelf because I knew you'd catch the smoke and know what it means. We call it my overtime. Detention for grown-ups. I've spent all week teaching them mythology—eighteen faces pretending to care about underworld queens while I stand there in linen and ink, cataloging exactly what I want your hands to do in that chair I keep by the window, the one I clayspatter on purpose so my colleagues never ask questions. The edge is the whole point with me. I've had you on my mind since the last bell, and I've been dragging my thumb around the rim of a cooling cup, not letting myself properly touch anywhere else, because I refuse to give that up before you arrive. When I pull on the leather harness over my silk slip, I'm not dressing for you. I'm dressing for the ten minutes you'll spend taking it off—slow, whether you want to or not, because I have a set of ropes that will teach your wrists better manners than my classroom ever taught these rowdy Swedes. My wrists ache from kneading clay. My mouth is going to hurt from the marks I plan to leave where your collar hides them, that little spot I found four weeks ago that makes you go quiet in public. Mischief in me that knows exactly who yields and who doesn't. Come before my timer finishes. I told Ingrid it's pottery night and I'll be in twice. Actually, make it once—there's a wet cup drying, and I want my fifteen minutes worth.