Page 122 of Slapshot Baby

She’s warm and present and funny and close. She leaves her toothbrush in my bathroom and her shampoo in my shower.

She's happy with me. That part isn't a question.

But she refuses to be my girlfriend despite everything.

One day, I take her to a ceramics studio in the Arts District.

The ceramics studio sits above a coffee shop on a narrow side street. It’s a wide loft with scarred wooden tables and shelves crammed with glazed bowls and lopsided vases.

The instructor sets us up at a shared table with all the tools we need.

"I've never worked with clay," I tell Ava.

"That's going to be very obvious very quickly. Just feel it out."

She tears off a chunk and starts working it. Her long fingers press and shape in quick strokes.

I watch the way she bites the inside of her cheek when she's working through a shape. The smear of grey along her cheekbone she doesn't know is there.

I reach across the table and wipe it with my thumb.

She blinks, startled, her eyes flicking to mine.

"You had clay on your face."

She smiles. “Thank you.”

I pick up my block. It has the density of cold butter and the cooperativeness of a rookie defenseman.

Within minutes, Ava holds up a miniature figure.

It’s about four inches tall with a broad chest, stubby legs, and two arms folded tight across its torso. The crooked nose is exaggerated. It’s got a scowl on its face and something resembling a stick in its hand

"This is you when the barista misspells your name. I'm calling it Grumpy Kai."

"I don't look like that."

"You look exactly like that. I should know. I've been on the receiving end of this face when I accidentally threw out your protein bars."

I look down at my own clay. It's still a rectangle with finger dents.

I try to shape something female. The head comes out too large. One arm is significantly longer than the other.

Ava leans over, her hair brushing my forearm, sending tiny sparks of desire into me. She laughs.

"Is that supposed to be me? That looks like a sweet potato having a panic attack."

"Your proportions are challenging."

"My proportions are perfect." She reaches over and adjusts the head with two quick pinches of her thumb. "There. Now she only looks mildly distressed instead of actively dying."

She returns to her station and produces a second figurine. This one is bent forward at the waist with its rear end elevated to a comical degree, a tiny stick on a flat surface in front of it.

"You, digging a puck out of the corner."

"Nobody's ass sticks out like that during puck retrieval."

"Yours does. I've watched tape."