cups, and shallow dishes with colors that reminded me of weather: gray-blue, pale green, a warm brown shining beneath the light. Sabrina picked up a small cup and ran her thumb near the handle without touching the glaze.
Her whole attention changed.
“You make pottery?” I asked.
She looked up, surprised. “A little.”
“How little?”
“Enough to know this handle is better than mine.”
She showed me photographs on her phone. The first mug had a crooked rim. A bowl leaned heavily to one side, and a shallow dish carried
