At pottery class, Boris kept choosing brown glaze and calling it green. Selma corrected him on the first two evenings; on the third, she simply passed him the right container. He was a fifty two year old electrician, with hands where clay dried in deep creases. She conserved paper and came to class wearing thin gloves, as though she had not yet decided whether she really wanted to get anything dirty.
When they made bowls, Boris's looked like a bent hat. Selma's was flawless, but the instructor asked her to stop measuring its rim. Boris laughed at himself, nobody else. Selma offered to exchange places beneath the lamp because she thought dimmer light was causing his trouble with colors. He said he had difficulty distinguishing some colors, and a new bulb could not fix it.
She felt ashamed of correcting him without asking. To the next class she brought labels naming every glaze, but she did not stick them on immediately. She asked whether he would find them useful. Boris said he would, especially since the florist had been sending his sister colors she hated for years. Selma laughed and admitted that she never bought herself flowers because she had always waited for someone else.
After class, their conversation lasted until the nearby tearoom closed. Both were divorced and cautious about sentences that sounded like promises. Boris spoke about his adult daughter, who left food for him although he could cook perfectly well. Selma described how she still kept two theater subscription seats, despite taking different friends to performances for three years. Neither offered the other a quick answer to an empty chair.
Before firing, Selma's bowl cracked. She wanted to throw it away, but Boris suggested waiting for the instructor. The repair left a visible seam, something like a river on a map. Selma did not cover it with decoration. When the pieces emerged from the kiln, Boris's bowl was genuinely green. He showed her the label he had saved in his wallet, between a tool shop card and a photograph of his newly born granddaughter.
For the final exhibition, they placed their bowls side by side. Selma brought flowers she had bought herself and separated a sprig for his piece. Boris asked whether her second theater seat was occupied on Friday. She said it was free, but the play was rather long. He offered dinner afterward, if they still felt like talking. She accepted without measuring how far that Friday might lead.