Winters here are unpredictable.
There are days when the fire stays in, when I watch the log pile shrink by the hour.
Other days, a weak sun raises the temperature by degrees, as well as the spirits.
Today, there's a chill in the air, so I call my friend to meet at the local bar -
that means I won't have to burn any logs.
She works here in the village, turning pots, then decorates them with the traditional blue designs
for tourists to buy – if she's lucky.
At the bar, she tells me about her new project. She knows exactly what she wants.
Ideas spin in her head like the pots on her wheel.
This time, she says, she's determined.
Her enthusiasm doesn't last for long.
She drifts away, staring into the middle distance, lost in private thoughts.
I study her hands- always tense, never still. Her slim fingers engrained with the red earth that she shapes.
Her wedding ring hangs from a chain around her neck, leaving her hands free from obstructions while she kneads the clay.
In the background, beer glasses crash about and a dog is barking somewhere outside.
Her eyes flick towards the T.V. High on the wall.
Sometimes, when an important match is on, there's football, but more often than not, like today,
there's a violent American film with subtitles in her own language.
She shivers, then comes back to me, pulling her scarf closer around her shoulders.
She tells me she's seen the film before and knows the plot well.
It's the one where the husband gets drunk and tries to **** his wife, but no one will believe her.
She looks tired.
She says she's been up all night trying to fix a faulty thermostat - that the heat of the kiln was too high and broke all her pots. Then the main fuse burned out and that she'd have to get an engineer in to fix it.
After a while, we embrace and part.
Walking home, I think of my friend and how she could never bear the space between her hands and her precious creations.
The air feels chillier now and an icy wind has started to blow.
I expect by the end of the day there'll be snow on the ground.
But there again, it might just rain.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2013