Widow's Hands in the Clay

Yvonne’s pottery studio sat alone at the end of the dirt lane, a converted barn with high windows that caught the afternoon light and threw it across tables cluttered with half-formed vessels. At thirty-eight she still had the full, heavy curves that had drawn her late husband’s hands every night, wide hips, thick thighs, breasts that strained the front of her clay-spattered apron. Her fingers were strong from years at the wheel, nails short, palms calloused in the best way. The big commission—a life-sized figurative piece for a gallery—had defeated her alone. Too much clay, too little time. So she had walked next door and hired Bruno.

Bruno was twenty-eight, a sculptor who lived in the smaller cottage across the pasture. Dark hair always falling into his eyes, forearms roped with muscle from hauling stone and wedging earth. He showed up the first morning in a faded T-shirt and jeans already dusted white, and the two of them set to work in the close heat of the studio.

They worked side by side at the big wedging table. The clay was a heavy gray mass, cool and slick, and every time they folded and slammed it their hands met, smeared, slid. Yvonne felt the brush of his knuckles against her wrist and a low current ran straight between her legs. It had been fourteen months since her husband died, fourteen months since any man had put hands on her. She caught Bruno watching the way her breasts moved when she leaned her weight into the clay. His eyes stayed there a beat too long. She didn’t look away.

“Christ,” she said, voice rough. “I forgot what it feels like just to have someone else’s skin near mine.”