Chapter 1: The Smell of Clay
The silence here has a sound of its own.
It was not emptiness. It was dense, woven from the steady “roo” of the turntables, the “slap-slap” of water on clay, and the rustling of the wind outside, coming through the large glassless windows, carrying the smell of grass and damp earth after a sudden rain.
Ngan walked in, and the silence stirred slightly.
She took off her straw slippers and placed them neatly on the steps. Her bare feet pressed against the cool cement floor, a feeling of nakedness and instant connection. A slight shiver ran down her spine. She wore a brown linen dress, a color of secrecy. The thick, flowing fabric hid all her curves, creating a secret space between the fabric and her skin. Her hair was tied up in a loose bun, revealing her white nape and a few soft, silky strands that stood out against the brown fabric.
She didn’t come here to be looked at. She came here to escape the stares. She came to be alone, to lose herself in something primal.
She sat down at the wheel. The clay lay there, cold, damp, lifeless. She put her hand on it. Her soft palm pressed against the cool, slippery surface. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The earthy scent filled her nostrils, a scent of beginnings, of creation. It made her feel at peace.
She began to press the pedals. The wheel began to turn, a steady whirring sound like a mantra. Her hands closed around the block of earth, her long fingers working. They weren’t just shaping. They were feeling. Feeling the earth’s resistance, its softness with water, its slow change under pressure. Her lips pursed slightly. Her entire focus was on the mass of earth growing, twisting, rounding under her hands.
She forgot herself. And that’s when her body started to speak.
To get a better look, she bent down, putting her face close to the rotating mass of earth.
The loose dress did its job of concealing. But gravity had forced the collar down. Just for a moment. But a moment was enough.
The afternoon sunlight slanted through the window, shining directly on the hollow of her chest, turning her fair skin into an inviting glow. The deep cleavage, created by the weight of her breasts trapped under her bra, appeared and disappeared as she sat up straight.
At the opposite table, the sound of a young man turning the table suddenly stopped. He had seen. His eyes widened for a second, then he quickly looked back down at his lifeless lump of clay, but his hands had forgotten what to do.
Ngan didn’t notice, or she was too used to such interruptions. She just felt uncomfortable because her back was sore.
She leaned back, stretching her shoulders in satisfaction. A satisfied “ah…” sound escaped her throat.
And that was when the linen betrayed her most cruelly.
As her hands reached up, the entire dress was pulled taut. The thin fabric, in the afternoon sunlight, became a hazy x-ray film. It no longer concealed. It outlined.
It outlined the full curve of her full breasts. It outlined the shape of her dark areola. And it outlined her hard, firm nipples, poking straight into the fabric like two silent challenges. The entire curve of her body, from her protruding chest, through her toned waist, down to her round, tightening ass, was all visible under that thin layer of fabric.
A drop of sweat rolled from her temple down her cheek. Clay from her hand splashed up and stuck to it, leaving a brown stain on her fair skin.
The guide, who had been watching her the whole time, swallowed. He stepped forward, stuttering, “Sis… sis, it’s sticky… sticky. Let me…”
He raised the damp cloth, but his hand was shaking. His fingers, instead of wiping away the dirt, gently rubbed against her warm skin. His eyes were not on the dirt, but on Ngan’s slightly parted lips.
Ngan opened her eyes and looked at him. She smiled. It was a polite smile, but in that moment, it was a weapon. “Thank you.”
The boy blushed and quickly withdrew his hand as if it was burned.
The lesson ended. Ngan happily took her distorted “result” and left. The smile remained on her lips until she got into the car. The door closed. A dry “slam”. The smile faded.
She looked in the rearview mirror. The streak of clay was still on her cheek.
She didn’t wipe it away. It was a trophy. Proof that, no matter how hard she tried to escape, her body would always find a way to tell its own story.