Deeper Water by Jessie Cole

Hamish, just out of the rim of light. ‘You feel with your thumb until you find the exact place where there’s no friction. That’s the centre.’
    It was interesting to think about what exactly the sensation of discovering the centre was. That lack of push or pull. I was seeking that small nub around which everything turned, measuring it with the waxy pad of my thumb. When I had the centre, I pressed down quickly, almost to the bottom, and that was the inside of the pot.
    ‘It doesn’t look too hard.’
    I could sense him shift as though adjusting his view. ‘You can have a go in a sec.’ I wanted to get out of the light, but I kept on dipping my hands into the water bowl and wetting the clay as it turned, the wheel still bumping along gently beneath me.
    After all the pots I’d made, it still felt a little magical how quickly the forms emerged. I held my hands like a clamp around the spinning lump, fingers on the inside, heels of my palms against the outer surface—moving them only the tiniest bit—and it all turned beneath my touch, taking shape. I didn’t try anything fancy, just a simple round pot.
    ‘That was … fast,’ Hamish said, standing back up.
    I smiled and ran the string beneath the clay, so it wouldn’t stick to the base, then stood and lifted it onto the drying shelf. All the unwanted clattering that had been going on inside me had settled with the making of the pot. It had ironed out my creases and I remained there—in the centre of everything—calmed and peaceful.
    ‘Okay, your go.’ I turned and sliced off some clay for him from the slab on the shelf. He sat down on the stool, getting his bearings and I banged the clay down on the top plate, shaping it into a circle, ready for him to begin.
    ‘So, I get it started with my foot, and then it should run by itself for a little bit?’
    ‘That’s right. And when it loses momentum you start it again.’
    He looked uncertain but he gave it a go. The wheel began its gentle clanking, the clay spinning unevenly on the plate. Hamish put his hands down gently.
    ‘Feel for the centre,’ I told him, nodding my head.
    ‘The place with no friction?’
    ‘Feel with your thumb.’
    ‘I don’t feel anything. It all feels the same.’
    ‘There’s no rush, just keep searching.’
    This time Hamish was inside the circle of light and I was on the perimeter. I liked it much better that way. I could watch him without him watching me. He touched the clay lightly with the tips of his fingers, moving his hands carefully out to the edge. Pottery is something you do with your hands, you can’t think about it too much. Hamish was concentrating so hard I could see he was struggling.
    ‘Close your eyes,’ I said, and then I walked around to stand behind him. ‘Feel the clay moving against your fingers. That’s it.’
    The wheel was slowing so I reached around him with my foot and pushed against it a few times, getting the momentum going again. He sat still on the stool, eyes closed, fingers poised on the top of the spinning mound, as though waiting for some inexplicable revelation. Leaning down, I put my hand over his. His skin felt warm against my fingertips.
    ‘Okay, here on the outside you can feel the push-pull.’
    He nodded slowly, his head tilted slightly to the side. I moved his hand across the clay towards the centre. ‘And feel, it gets less and less?’
    He shifted a little on the stool and my breasts swayed against his back.
    ‘Yes, I feel that.’ His voice was low.
    ‘When you feel nothing, press in.’ I was whispering, my mouth close to his ear, the feel of his back against me.
    ‘Now?’ He sounded confused.
    ‘Go! Press!’
    Hamish hesitated, so I pushed his thumb down with my own, and just like that the clay gave way. A bit wobbly, but okay for a first try. He froze then, like he didn’t know what to do next, but if he didn’t start working it he’d lose the momentum. I reached my other hand around to steer him, pushing on the