Pottery Wheels

The hair on his chest wasn't enough that you'd notice, but he knew it was there. And always left his shirt open in the hope that someone would see. The tiny snakes emanating from his skin. And assume there still was venom in those rotted fangs. Or at least be charmed enough to pretend that they'd been poisoned.

By him.

In sculptures of touch. Balls of clay still wet in her nervous grip. The kiln coughing hot in the background. As the wheel spun the would be shape through the twitch of her fingers. In an tentative chorus of skin. Eager to be hardened.

She thought for a while. As one drink become several. And her art dried tight to her flesh. The lopsided bowl she'd spun still soft between her legs. As she contemplated whether or not she had succeeded.

In creating something.