The Pottery Studio's Mold
"Artist Adele shapes clay in her Harlem studio. When a businessman commissions pieces for his office, she discovers some forms require two sets of hands."
Clay knows your truth.
Thirty years throwing pots, and my hands still find things I didn't know I needed. I'm Adele—fifty-seven, Harlem artist, shaping earth into beauty.
"I need something unique."
The businessman stands in my studio doorway. Marcus Webb—successful, serious, looking at my work like he actually sees it.
"For what purpose?"
"My office. Something that reminds me why I work." His eyes find mine. "Something with soul."
The commission is substantial.
A collection—twelve pieces representing months, seasons, the cycle of business and life.
"You understand what you're asking?" I warn.
"I understand I want your hands on my walls." His gaze is direct. "I've researched every artist in the city. Your work is the only thing that moved me."
He visits during creation.
Not hovering—observing. Watching my hands work the wheel, shape the clay.
"Why pottery?" he asks one evening.
"Because it's honest." I center a new lump. "You can't lie to clay. It knows when you're not present."
"What else knows?"
"Bodies." I look up. "People. Anyone paying attention."
"Show me."
The words surprise us both.
"You want to throw?"
"I want to understand." He removes his jacket. "Your hands create miracles. Let me feel what that's like."
Teaching him is intimate.
His hands over mine, guiding the clay. His breath on my neck, his focus absolute.
"Feel the center," I murmur.
"I feel more than the center." His hands tighten. "I feel you, Adele."
The kiss happens at the wheel.
Clay still spinning, hands still wet. His mouth finds mine, and I taste intention.
"This is—"
"Right." He pulls back slightly. "This is exactly right."
We move to my apartment above.
Clay on our hands, earth still present. He undresses me like unwrapping something precious.
"You're a work of art," he breathes.
"I'm a mess—"
"You're everything I've been looking for." He kisses my shoulder. "Let me shape something with you."
His hands mold me.
Finding curves, learning contours. When his mouth travels my body, I feel formed.
"Marcus—"
"Let me." He settles between my thighs. "Let me center you."
When he enters me, we're creating.
"Perfect," he groans.
"More. Shape me more."
"All night if you let me."
Afterward, in my bed, he traces my skin.
"The commission just changed."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't just want pieces for my office." He pulls me closer. "I want the artist. Every day. Creating with me."
"Marcus—"
"Move into my penthouse. Build a studio there. Make art and make love and make everything."
The penthouse studio opens that spring.
Views of Manhattan, space to create, a patron who became a partner.
"Regrets?" he asks.
"Only that my clay gets jealous of your attention."
"Then use me as a model." He grins. "I've gotten good with my hands."
The wedding is in the studio.
Surrounded by the pieces we've made together.
"To the woman who shaped my world," Marcus toasts.
"To the man who let me," I counter.
We kiss while the kiln fires.
Some art is displayed.
Some is lived.
And some potters find that the best work is molded with someone who makes you feel centered.
Hand to hand.
Heart to heart.
Formed forever.