The Session

potters-clay-pic

I knew something was different about this woman the minute I dreamed about her. It wasn’t like a wet dream, but it was just as stimulating. She is going on and on about something in the chopped English that seems to always escape her when she gets excited. I’m usually turned off a bit by this, which makes it even more disturbing. It’s always the same dream- her hair is pinned up in what the girls call a chignon, classic all the way- and her chestnut brown eyes glistens in the sunlight. We are in an open, airy space and I’m like damn it, slow down a bit-I want to say this-but to interrupt her would be unacceptable. So I sit there and listen, and that tells a lot if you know me. I am lovestruck, to say the least-as much as a twenty five year old, premium cut, all American boy can be.

It’s not like I haven’t had my share of dreams, girls, or a mixture; depending on who is counting I’ve probably had a few too many. This was different though….and I was going to have her by any means necessary.

The dream usually arrives the night before, once a week -like clockwork, before my pottery class with her. I’m the teacher (it’s just a side job while I make my way through law school) and she is one of my pupils. She has been participating for about eight weeks now, and, although she seems intelligent and eager to learn, her skills with the clay are somewhat delayed. I have been thinking of ways to assist both of us, so today will be just the two of us. I have given her some excuse about having it be a makeup for when she missed a while back-but we all know what it is. Not trying to sound stalkerish, but I just want to be near her, one on one. Then maybe my infatuation would subside. We are never alone in class-so I created a diversion. The end. If you could only feel what this girl does to me then maybe you would sort of understand. Maybe not.

Either way here she comes. I try to look relaxed by rounding my shoulders and flashing her a bright smile. She doesn’t seem to see me yet, as she puts her things away, so I start kneading the clay on the wheel. My palm dips ceremoniously into the cup of water that I have on hand, and the ritual begins. As my foot presses against the pedal to make the table go faster, I glimpse her bending over in close proximity to me. I, of course, am sidetracked and stare far too long for the health of my piece, and the mound that I have made goes wayward, flopping over the side, spraying across myself and her backside. At about the same time, she turns around and tries to salvage what is left of the clay particles from falling to the ground- and our hands meet. I smile again and mouth the word “SORRY”. She smiles back this time and looks at me playfully with her eyes; we linger there for a few moments until I hear a throat clear from the doorway.

Glancing up I see this guy there who looks rather familiar. Once it dawns on me that I’ve seen him sometimes picking her up after class, she is off- ushering him in and speaking in her foreign tongue. The air feels like it is being knocked out of me, and I slump a little; the guy is definitely an eyesore; tall stature, slicked black hair, chiseled abs, the works. Then the miraculous happens: she introduces him as “mmm…how do you say… brother.” She goes on to announce that his name is Raphael, he doesn’t speak English, but, he wanted to see some of her artwork before running a few errands. Which places us back on schedule.

Once we are alone again I encourage her to let loose and take off any extra barriers preventing the flow of creativity ie. shoes, bras, etc. She obliges after being assured that she has full access to the shower room that has been pre-stocked for such occasions as these. Then I take my seat, behind her of course. As we get nudged up together, I wrap my arms around her waist and press my hands against hers, which is placed at three o’clock and nine o’clock. I let her work the foot control as I speak slowly and deliberately while tightening up my grip, wetting the canvas as necessary, until some remnant of a vase takes shape. I can work clay in my sleep so that is a no brainer, my main focus is on her breathing. Her chest rubs up against my biceps every few seconds which does its part to jack up all willing parties. My head nuzzles against her neck and I turn slightly to rub my lips against her lavender scented cheek. This is when I feel her pause in breath. When I look up her eyes are centered on the table. The vase has ceased to rotate.  As I’m about to start shooting off apologies she whispers “Finito”. I nod my approval, and, feeling a bit more courageous, sniff at her hair and kiss it.

Throwing it into the oven takes less than two minutes and we are off to shower. She undresses before me and walks backwards while pulling me with her. The rest is just how I imagined it.

When we are finished, I tell her that she can paint her vase at our next class. She agrees then calls Raphael, who she says is just around the corner at the park. When he pulls up he takes a kid out of a car seat and hands it to her. She kisses the little girl’s forehead and then tongues Raphael, all before waving bye to me. I’ve definitely never kissed my sister that way, but I shake it off as being a cultural difference and wonder at the next time that we have a makeup session, if she wouldn’t mind going out for curry chicken before the main event.

Tamuriel L. Dillard

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