she moved her stool closer.
“Your elbows need to stay steady.”
She demonstrated with her own hands, explaining where the pressure should come from. I tried again. For a few moments, the clay rose into something promising.
Then the rim began to wobble.
Sabrina reached across and corrected it.
“Wait,” I said.
She stopped.
“Are you teaching me, or making my bowl?”
The words came out gently, but her face changed.
Her hands withdrew.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. I just wanted to see whether I could—”
