I’m sitting in the ceramics studio, and I cant help but
mentally whimper a bit. Today is my last day to work in the studio with wet
clay. This sucks. I wish I would have had more time this semester to come in
and make things.
More than that, I wish I lived in a old brick apartment. Brick
surrounding everywhere, and built into the wall in the living room there would
be tall wooden bookshelves. I
always daydream about a kitchen with a window in front of the sink where I can
stand and wash dishes with my hair pulled up in a mess, a few strands falling
around my face. I want Dalton
standing behind me holding my waist while I hand wash the dishes, music flowing
in the background, the both of us swaying side to side. After some time, he
might grin out of the side of his mouth like he always does, and begin to
tickle me. I can see myself scooping up a handful of soap suds and smushing it
on his cheek. At first he looks alarmed, but it quickly fades. I notice his
eyebrows fall together into a stern line. I scan his face in what feels like a
slow manner, even though I know it mustn’t have been but a second or two it
feels like time slows, and now I’ve found his eyes, slightly squinted and
stern. Reflexively my heart jumps; I know I’m in trouble. He reaches up quickly,
wipes the suds off of his face and scrapes them off into the sink. I’m looking
for a way to squirm out of his arms, now braced onto the counter, barricading
me in and I can find no escape. My eyes widen as I look up at him. He leans in
and speaks roughly from the bottom of his throat, “Where do you think you’re
going?” My breath hitches and with that he scoops me up and I begin squealing,
my arms and legs flailing in the air.
