The Throwing Wheel

"Chi-chi-chi-chi-chi! Chi-chi-chi-chi-chi!" A grasshopper trills in the tall grass near the porch. I shift under the dual weights of my backpack and the heavy afternoon air, and sweep a handfull of box braids off my neck. Reaching to knock on the front door again, I jump instead as it swings away from my hand.

"Hullo! Are you Sarah?" A man about my age smiles sweetly around the door.

"Oh! Ah. Yeah! Sorry. You must be Phil? Hi!"

"Yes, hi! Come in! I'm not quite presentable yet, I'm afraid."

"Oh my god, no, don't worry. I'm early. My bus got in early."

"Yes, and I hope you're very ashamed about it."

My gut does actually twist with shame, before I realize that he's joking and then the fact that he's joking makes me instantly like Phil. That, and his voice probably doesn't hurt either. I don't meet a lot of Black guys in California with posh English accents.

"Oh I'll carry that shame with me all week, don't worry. I didn't expect you to be--" I cast around for something to add that isn't "so hot," and land on his smeared apron. "--baking. What're you making?"

"Baking? Oh! No, this is porcelain. Aisha did tell you you have to sleep in a pottery studio, I hope?"

"Oh! No! You have a pottery studio? What!"

"Well, studio may be a strong word. It's got a pullout couch, I promise. Sorry, I haven't got a proper spare room."

"Oh, no, that's great! I'll...