midnight rain [f. colapinto]

f i f t y - t w o

Though she had never been to this particular pottery studio, Evita was overcome by an immediate sense of familiarity as soon as she crossed the threshold. A soft smile played on her lips as she took in the shelves of ceramic pieces, some perfectly formed, other raw and unglazed. A lump formed in Evita's throat as she remembered what she had been missing for the last six years.

"This is nice," said Franco, looking around the studio.

There was space for people to paint pre-made pieces, and a wheel throwing space in the back. A door led to the room with the kiln to fire the pieces. Franco followed Evita to the neat row of pottery wheels.

"You're going to teach me how this works, right?" asked Franco.

Evita shot him a playful smile. "I'm prretty sure you're beyond saving, Franco. But I'll try."

The two took their seats. A worker helped them with clay and the other materials they would need. After that, the studio owner let the two be.

Evita easily slipped into the rhythm of the craft as if no time had passed. Even though she carefully explained the directions to Franco, he looked a bit lost, his hands clumsily trying to shape the mound of clay before him.

Evita giggled as she watched him struggle. "Like this," she said, reaching over to guide his hands. Her fingers rested on his, adjusting his grip. One of her knees pressed against his thigh. "You have to let the clay move between your fingers. Don't fight it so much."

Evita looked up. Franco's eyes were on her face, not the clay. He blushed when they made eye contact. Evita felt hot, so she removed her hands from his, eliminating all contact between them. She returned to her own work, carefully shaping the clay.

"You always did have a knack for this," said Franco. "Why did you give it up?"

Evita paused, her hands stilling for a moment as she looked up at him. "Life got complicated," she said with a small shrug. "I needed to focus on university. I put this on the shelf so I could leave home and get into Oxford. It's just a hobby, Franco."

"Seems like a mistake to me." Franco's voice was more sincere than Evita was used to. "You're talented, Evita."

Evita laughed, but the lump in her throat made it sound strained. "Maybe," she said, turning back to the wheel to avoid his gaze. She blinked back tears. "You know how it is, you make choices, and some things have to be sacrificed."

Franco's clay was still a mess, spinning off-center on the wheel, but he didn't seem to care. He was too focused on Evita, this softer part of her he rarely got to see.

"You know," he said, quieter now. "You don't have to put on that tough act all the time. It's okay to let yourself enjoy this."

Evita finally met his gaze, hoping her eyes weren't red. For the first time in a long while, she didn't have a quick remark ready. She didn't look away, even when the moment seemed to stretch a little too long.

She cleared her throat, finally breaking the silence. "I am enjoying this," she said.

Franco rolled his eyes. "Not the ceramics, Ev. Spending time together."

"Oh," said Evita, her voice. "Maybe you're right. Maybe some things shouldn't be left on the shelf."

She didn't know what she was talking about: her old dream, or her bond with Franco.

"Maybe there's hope for us yet," said Franco. "You'll like me one day, Evita."

"Don't push it," warned Evita, but her smile betrayed her words.

The studio felt a little warmer after that, the quiet between them permeated by Evita's occasional instructions and Franco's complaints of how difficult the craft was. It was strangely beautiful, how calm the two could be together, if they only tried hard enough.