The Pottery Showdown

Apparently my social life is thriving in my dreams. It’s a shame I hate people. I’ve been invited to a house party. Not someone’s house party. Just… a house party. No host. No context. No details. No warning label. Just a vague instruction that feels less like a suggestion and more like a threat: Bring booze. Plenty of it. Mat is already elbow-deep in the fridge, rummaging with the frantic energy of a man who believes answers are always tucked behind something expired. There’s a shuffle of jars. A wobble of something dairy-adjacent. He resurfaces holding half a bottle of rosé. “Do you think this will do?” The liquid inside looks… cloudy. Unsettled. Slightly confrontational. “That’s been sitting there for at least three years.” He unscrews the lid. Sniffs. Pauses. Then nods with unnerving certainty. “Oh yes… definitely funky. We’ll pop to the shop.” Of course we will. By the time we leave, things have already gone too far. Pickle — our nine-week-old kitten — has been strapped into a baby carrier. His tiny head pokes out, eyes wide and glassy, the expression of someone unwillingly enrolled in this travelling sideshow act. “You aren’t seriously—” “He’s my emotional support animal,” Mat says, smoothing his fur like a man who has already decided, and considers the matter closed. I open my mouth to challenge it. And close it again. Because where do you even begin? We are five minutes into leaving the house and we’ve already introduced a support kitten in a chest harness. So instead — I shrug. “Fine. But I don’t know you.” Tesco Express is wrong. That’s the only way I can describe it. I step inside and blink. Once — for clarity. Twice — for denial. Still wrong. The place looks like a nail salon collided with a pottery barn and begrudgingly chose to coexist. The aisles have been replaced with manicure stations. Rows of tiny lamps. Nail polish lined up like tiny, colourful soldiers. Spinning pottery wheels whirl like they’ve always belonged here. The air is thick — burnt acrylic and wet clay, clinging to the back of my throat like residue from a room that clearly doesn’t want me here. I hover near what used to be the meal deals. Now… It's bowls. Just bowls. Endless bowls. “Are you here for pottery?” a voice calls. I turn. Kaftan man. Draped in flowing fabric that billows in an unseen draft. He leans casually against a counter that did not exist five minutes ago. Socks. Jesus sandals. Confidence that borders on spiritual delusion. “I was just looking for wine,” I say. He smiles — not unkindly. “Wine is just fermented patience,” he says. “But clay…” he continues, lowering his voice to barely a whisper, “clay remembers the hands that shape it.” I stare at him. Because that’s either profound… or deeply unhelpful. Possibly both. Before I can decide — “Don’t waste your time.” The voice arrives right beside me. The pottery woman. She wasn’t there a second ago. I’m sure of it — it’s as if the clay gods have twisted her into shape between blinks. “It’s all a massive con,” she whispers, with the urgency of someone who has suffered at the hands of ceramics. She lifts something into my line of vision. A commode. That’s right. An actual commode. Even from a distance, it’s impressive. Elegant, even — which feels like a bold choice for something you shit in. This one is strangely breathtaking in its beauty — layered with rich swirls of colour, textures that feel almost hand-painted. “Look closer,” she insists. She thrusts it towards me. Up close, it’s a disaster. Hairline cracks spiderweb across the surface. The whole thing wobbles gently under the weight of pretending it's fine. “My commode has already cracked,” she says, suddenly sharp. “How is mother meant to use this?” “Maybe… a toilet?” I offer. She freezes. Slowly turns to me. Her eyes widen — not in confusion — in horror. “I have an old plant pot that might work,” she says, darkly. Of course she does. Mat reappears beside me holding two bottles that could be wine… but could just as easily dissolve a countertop. “Sorted,” he says, with confidence that feels… reckless. We leave. I make it halfway down the road before stopping, “I’m not sure I can do this.” Mat keeps walking for a step or two before noticing I’ve vanished from his orbit. He turns. “Do what?” “This,” I say, gesturing vaguely ahead — towards the party, the people, the performance of belonging I can’t quite pull off. “You always do this,” Mat sighs. “Do you want us to make friends?” No. God, no. I don't like people. They’re loud. Unpredictable. Full of small talk and lingering eye contact. They ask questions I don't want to answer and laugh at things I don't understand. People are exhausting. But instead, I say — “Yeah.” Because sometimes it’s easier to lie than to explain you’re just fundamentally, disappointingly antisocial. The party is exactly what I feared. A room full of adults pretending. Heads bobbing to music that doesn’t exist. Smiles held a fraction too long. Drinks clutched tightly. Everything feels rehearsed. No one seems to be enjoying themselves — but everyone is playing their role with unwavering professionalism. “Well… this was worth the anxiety.” “Give it chance,” Mat says. “The party don’t start ‘til I walk in.” I close my eyes. Just a moment. A brief, private moment of mourning. “Kesha?” I whisper. He doesn’t deny it. Which feels worse than a yes. We are beyond saving. “Ah,” a voice says softly, somewhere just behind my shoulder. “You made it.” I don’t need to turn. I already know. Kaftan man. Of course he’s here. He drifts through the crowd with impossible ease like he belongs everywhere and nowhere. A drink appears in his hand as if summoned by thought alone. “You look overwhelmed,” he says, gently. I glance at him. “I look like I want to leave,” I reply. He nods, as if I’ve said something wise. “Remember,” he says, lowering his voice, “not everything needs to be useful to be valuable.” “Sit.” The word cuts through the moment. I turn. The pottery woman is already there, seated on the sofa, waiting as if she’s been there all along. The commode sits beside her. She leans over and flips open a laptop. “I’ve reworked your stories,” she says. My stomach drops. “You what?” “You can thank me later.” She turns the screen towards me. I lean in. And — Oh. It's worse than I thought. They’re cleaner. Simpler. Structured. Understandable. Every strange edge sanded down. Every raw moment smoothed away. Every uncomfortable moment… erased. Lifeless. “You’ve butchered them,” I gasp. “I’ve improved them,” she corrects. “They make sense now.” “They’re dream stories. They’re not supposed to make sense.” She laughs — sharp, cutting. “They were embarrassing.” “But they’re not mine anymore.” “Exactly.” The word lands like a final edit. Kaftan man appears behind me, leaning in slightly. “Hmm,” he murmurs. “They’ve lost their… edges.” “They’ve lost their flaws,” the pottery woman snaps. “They’ve lost their pulse,” he replies, softly. Something in the room tightens. And just like that — It starts. “What good is art that doesn’t hold?” she demands, grabbing the commode. “What good is art that’s afraid to break?” he counters. “Function matters!” “Expression matters!” “Structure!” “Freedom!” Back and forth. Faster now. Sharper. The room shifts. Heads turn. The fake laughter dissolves first. Then the smiles. Then the pretence. People start watching. Finally something real enough to cut through the pretence. It’s not an argument anymore. It’s a tug of war. Over meaning. Over creation. Over control. “You’re hiding behind chaos,” she spits at me. “You’re suffocating it,” he fires back at her. I just sit there — Caught between them. Because the worst part is — they’re both right. The shouting crescendos — A sudden movement. A shift. A misstep. An elbow. The commode slips. Time slows. It falls. Hits the ground— And explodes. A thousand pieces. Silence. The pottery woman gasps. Drops to her knees. “My God…” she breathes. A long pause. “This is a masterpiece.” I blink. She gestures wildly at the fragments. “Look at it! The fragmentation! The honesty! The risk!” I look. It’s chaos. Broken. Pointless. …strangely compelling. Kaftan man steps forwards and squints. “Looks like a heap of mess to me.” And something in me — Finally — Laughs. Because that’s it, isn’t it? That’s the whole absurd, uncomfortable truth of it all. One person’s masterpiece is another person’s disaster. One person’s refinement is another person’s erasure. And somewhere in between— Buried under opinions, edits, and well-meaning destruction — is the thing I actually made. I look at the shattered pieces again. They’re not perfect. Not useful. Not even whole. Some pieces don’t seem to belong anywhere. Some are too small to matter. Some are sharp enough to hurt. Any yet — they hold something the polished version didn’t. Something jagged. Something imperfect. Something… alive. The party resumes around me, but softer now. Less certain. Mat is still somewhere in the crowd, thriving in a way I no longer feel obligated to understand, Pickle still in his carrier, his emotional support role now seemingly complete. Kaftan man has drifted off mid-conversation with someone who looks both confused and quietly transformed. The pottery woman kneels among the fragments, cradling a single shard in both hands — Like it’s holy. Like it’s proof. Like it’s enough. And me? I stay exactly where I am. Surrounded by the wreckage. The noise. The versions of things that almost worked. And for the first time all night — I’m not trying to adjust. Or explain. Or improve what’s already been made. I just stand there. Certain. I didn’t come here to impress anyone. I didn’t come here to get it right. I came here to see what breaks. And more importantly — What refuses to.