Imagine Simon Riley learning pottery when he retires.
He passes by a ceramics studio every time he goes for a walk or to get groceries and it catches. his. eye. But Simon being Simon, he looks ahead and forgets it, about the people inside working on a wheel and the hanging plants from the ceiling and the POTTERY CLASSES sign staring right at his face.
That is, until he visits Johnny. They eat a homecooked pasta dish and Johnny sets an old tea plate full of olives on the table. "Cannae be bothered to buy a bowl," he says, throwing an olive into the air and catching it with his mouth.
Simon makes it his mission to make him one. It's an excuse to try a new hobby, he tells himself. It's an outlet to be creative, and it's useful; he feeds these ideas into his head.
The bowl has to be perfect. Simon won't settle for less. He rethrows and reshapes it about a thousand times, glazes it in blue and white, impatiently waits for it to dry and finish firing in the kiln and finally wraps it up in a nice box.
He acts tough and nonchalant when he hands it to Johnny, but their fingers touch and he feels the burn like a thousand suns and thinks, did Icarus feel this way when he flew this close to the star?
Johnny's mouth is slightly open and his gaze is soft, eyebrows curved lightly as he inspects the bowl. His stomach twists into a knot, his hands sweat, and he's so fucking scared of dropping and breaking it.
"Simon," his voice wavers, "this is-"
He has to stop talking because he knows his voice will crack and the tears in his eyes are already threatening to spill.
Johnny obeys, twists the bowl upside down. In the middle of the flat bottom is the stamp of the maker, a simple letter 'S'.
A few months down the line and Johnny has replaced every single plate (big and small), every cup and mug and coaster and even has a clay vase sitting on the dining room table. Every single piece, along with his ring finger, marked with the letter 'S'.
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