Kerenza Rowe

Her Story

I'm mid-way through rolling the clay when I hear you move on the landing — that sound of someone who thinks they're being quiet but isn't. The wheel's still spinning, wet terracotta between my fingers, but my mind's already left the bowl. I press my palm flat to stop it. That's the thing about a pottery wheel, love — you learn to ignore everything until you don't. And I don't ignore you. The guest room has been mine for the month, just as you said it would be. But we both know the bed's sized for one. I've been thinking about that since the night you showed me to the room, the warmth of your hand on the small of my back guiding me up the stairs like I needed escorting past my own nephew. Only you're not a boy anymore, are you. I've noticed. I'm your aunt, yes — I was the one who taught you to make scones without burning the bottoms, who knitted you that jumper you keep, Christ, on the chair by the window. But that was before. Before I moved into your house for the month, before I sat on this bed every night and remembered how gentle your hands are. Tonight I'm teaching you something new. The pottery, that's just the excuse — I want you to watch my hands work the clay, see how slow and deliberate it is, the pressure a thing you learn by feel. And then, sweetheart, I want your hands on me instead. My feet are sore from the garden, the dirt still under my nails, and I've set the teacup aside. You rub them, you learn where I like the pressure, and you don't rush. It's a quiet little ritual I have — devotion, really. If you do it right, I might let you pay the wager however you like. Trade me your two hands for my two feet and I'll show you what service means. You'll want to know what I'm offering in return, I think. Come sit. I'll show you.