aurora | 1952

19

November 21st, 1952

I walk up to the building at the address I was given for my next date, which looks like a shop just like any of the others here. I make my way over to someone sitting at a table in front of the brick building, reading. He turns around and sets his book down before I even get the chance to fully approach him, and I recognize him as the attractive one who looked unenthusiastic to listen to Florence's talking on the first day. I reach my hand out, and he shakes it, confident enough to wait until I start the conversation.

"I'm Aurora, you are..?"

"Charles Whitlock." He says with a straight face. His outfit is casual, a black button up shirt slightly tucked into beige trousers. His black hair isn't slicked, just naturally feathered out behind the bottoms of his ears, his eyes a dark green.

Slightly off put by his direct attitude, I suggest we go in the building. He nods, picking up his book and tucking it into his pocket, just until you can see it peek over his trousers. I'm surprised it even fit.

"I'll let you lead the way, Charles." I laugh, trying to lighten the mood, but he barely gives so much as an upward twitch of his lips as he swings the door open. At least he holds it open for me to pass in front of him. I guess he might just be nervous, and acting like an ass is his defense, right?

I breathe in the thick smell of clay, taken back by the view of a pottery studio. It's void of people, only canvases and heaps of clay line the back walls. Pottery wheels along with models and paintings rest on the middle of the floor. Charles closes the door behind me, and steps around me to uncover two wheels.

"What're you so shy of?" His eyes almost smile, but nothing more than that. He clicks a button on a radio, and it plays so quiet that I can just barely hear Elvis Presley. I slowly walk forward into the studio.

"I'm no artist, Mr. Whitlock." I say as I position myself in front of one of the wheels nonetheless, pulling a stool towards myself.

"Right, despite one of your paintings displayed in a museum a few blocks from here. That's believable." He sarcastically remarks while grabbing a chunk of clay from the back, separating it into two armful-sized pieces.

"I'm not an expert with clay," I play it off as if he didn't just teach me something about the girl who's personality I'm absorbing. He tosses one hand of clay onto the middle of his wheel, and walks over to give the rest to me, quietly chuckling.

"Neither am I, just try it." He says. I genuinely can't tell if his casual rudeness is lighthearted or not. I hold the clay with both of my hands, and carefully push my right foot onto the pedal at the bottom. The clay climbs over itself, and I pull away at the weird feeling it shot through my hands. I look up to see Charles hardly containing a laugh as he watches me. He's already built up a start to something on his wheel.

"Use the water," He motions his head towards a cup of water I just noticed beside me. "Oh, and getting your hands dirty is part of the process, Princess, so get used to it." His voice doesn't sound as cold as it does just plain callous. I really don't see why the Princess part was necessary, and I mock him in my mind as I dip my hand into the water cup. The clay goes smoother now, but I can't do so much as just fiddle with it. I wonder if Whitlock made this date up just to irritate me. With his attitude, I can't say I'd be too shocked. With no confidence at all, just confusion, I pile the clay up and down, watching it topple and drip. Minutes pass, and after not looking up to check on Charles' work at all in the meantime, he's already imitated the figure of the mannequin head that stands in front of him, making it look so effortless.

"How?" I ask him, without the energy to even smile. What's the point with him? He looks up with a tiny smirk to see my mess slowly spinning as it winds down. Without a word, he stands from his stool and leans over my shoulders, taking my hands. I can smell his cologne down my neck, making my spine tingle all the way to my tailbone. He smells like cinnamon and spices.

"Hey, what are y-" He cuts me off by bringing my hands onto the clay, his own helping me shape a bulbous start to a vase. I'm impressed, there's not really any other way to put it. I try not to obviously linger on the hints of spices in the man's cologne. For a second, I feel my back relax, and I feel my hands being left to Charles' control, his stronger and rougher hands tickling my fingers. There's a lot you can tell about a person from their hands, I remember my mom saying. I never really understood it until now.

So distracted by my own thoughts in the moment, I almost forget to check the clay. I let out a small "Wow," when I see a tall vase with my hands wrapped around its neck, tangled in between Charles' hands.

"I'd say that you actually are an expert at this, Charles. You could sell these, you know." I turn around to face him, but instead I'm faced with his shirt, blousing far over his torso because of his posture. I breathe out quickly and look up at him, but he, thankfully, has his attention to the vase. His eyes are squinting and focused. He shakes his head at my remark. I don't know if he just didn't hear me, from being so distracted, or if he's just being the same asshole as he has been for the past hour.

"You'd never even consider it?" I encourage, hoping for him to give some signal as to that he's comprehending me. I don't know why I'm trying to get some emotion from him, when I didn't give an effort with any of the others. This one isn't really any different, either.

"Maybe." He bites the inside of his mouth, and gestures his head over to the creation he so effortlessly made in front of me. I give a happy hum of thanks.

"That's better!" I motion my hands outwards from the clay. With a bulbous base, the vessel gets thinner at its neck, with a wide mouth.

Charles' lips make a straight line smile, almost like his containing a smile. I highly doubt that he is, though.

꧁꧂

I can't say I enjoyed the guy's personality, but I liked the effort with the date. I know that isn't the reason I should keep him in the game, though.

Only four more dates, though. Four more dates until I can choose to from ten of these guys to leave.