Gemotions

The afternoon sun, a lukewarm disc in the sky, cast long shadows across the empty pottery studio. Her hands, usually stained with clay, were clean, almost too clean. She’d been twirling the same lump of grey clay for a full hour, not shaping it, just turning it, feeling its coolness against her skin. A sigh escaped her lips, a sound lost in the vast quiet. The silence of the studio was heavy, oppressive. He wasn't there. Not in his usual spot, humming a jaunty tune, a whirlwind of energy amidst the dust and glazes. A note, hastily scribbled on a sticky pad, was all that remained. Gone. Retired. She tossed the clay ball against the wall, its impact a dull thud.