Journal 78
Thea 29
Ceramic painter
- Life
- A studio with a kitchen behind it
- Temper
- Warm and plain
Kinks
- Everyone named, everyone agreed
- The night is planned, not stolen
- Slow, before the day starts
I am Thea, 29. I paint ceramic for a living, mostly plain mugs and bowls that other people will hold every morning. My husband is Noah, 31. He teaches evening classes and comes home with chalk on his cuffs and a calm voice. Tess is 30, a woman who throws pots in the studio two doors down, and she has been our friend long enough that the want stopped pretending to be only friendship. The three of us agreed on a Sunday in daylight, before any night, that we would share a bed and tell the truth while we did it. Any one of us can stop. We do not sneak. Sharing, for me, is not losing Noah. It is handing him a pleasure I also get to watch, and taking mine while Tess watches me back. I like the morning after almost as much as the sex, three mugs, nobody performing regret in the doorway.
The blog
2 entries, newest first.
Sunday morning
Sunday light came in low and yellow, and the three mugs were already on the table because Noah cannot walk through a kitchen without setting out more cups than we need. My smock hung on the hook by the door. I was in a knit sweater and nothing else, barefoot, still half asleep. Tess was in one of his shirts. He was in shorts, hair ridiculous. We had said the…
Read full postThe mugs
The mugs on the shelf were still plain, a row of pale clay waiting for the next coat, and my smock was already a map of old pigment. Noah and Tess came in together after I texted that the kiln was cooling and the door could lock. We had agreed three days earlier, in the daylight of this same room, that if the work was done we would stay. I…
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