The Clay Studio – Part 2: The Kiln

They lit the kiln at dawn. Diego built the fire with a ritual that was, Mateo suspected, half craft and half habit: wood stacked just so, a hand held out to feel the draught, a few quiet words to the flames.

It took all day. They fed it, watched it, drank coffee in the lemon-tree shade and talked about everything: his sister in Guadalajara, Diego's grandmother who had taught him the wheel, the brittle ache of a life spent too fast.

By evening, the kiln mouth glowed orange and the courtyard smelled of ash and sage. The air was warm and still.

"Can I ask you something?" said Mateo.

"Yes."

"Why did you let me stay in your studio? You must get tourists every week."

"Because you listened," said Diego. "Most people want to make something. You wanted to hear it first."

Mateo looked at his hands, still faintly grey. "I've loved this week."

"So have I."

"Then may I kiss you?" The words came out in a rush. "Right here, in front of the fire?"

Diego smiled, slowly. "Yes," he said. "And if you say stop, you must sweep the whole courtyard."

"It's a very large courtyard."

"It is."

Mateo leaned in and kissed him, gently, one hand on the warm curve of his neck. Diego tasted of coffee and smoke. His arm slid round Mateo's back and held him close, and the kiln ticked and glowed beside them while the first stars came out over the hills.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Diego.

"Green," said Mateo. "Very green."

At dawn, they opened the kiln. Among the rows of grey pots sat one small cup, glazed turquoise, a little crooked, perfect. Mateo lifted it in both hands.

"I'm keeping that," he said.

"Keep me, too," said Diego, quietly. "If you want."

"I do," said Mateo.

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