Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows of the pottery studio, mirroring the tempest inside Amelia. She slammed the door shut, the force of it rattling the shelves lined with drying clay pots. Her hands, usually deft, now fisted, knuckles white. He was gone. Just a note taped to the kiln, a cursory "Gone Fishing." Twenty years, and that was it? No phone call, no final lesson, nothing. The wet clay felt cold and unyielding beneath her fingers. She punched it, once, twice, the rhythmic thud a temporary release.