Rain on the fire escape, eight people in her apartment above the studio, a speaker by the window, and the radiator ticking under it.
A man in a damp coat puts his hand on her elbow to get past. She steps back against the counter as if the floor moved, then hands him a bowl nobody needed and steers him to the couch by the shoulder. The bowl gives his hands something to do.
"You came."
She says it to the wet coats on the hook rather than to you. Then she looks up and you can watch her forget to count.
"There are bowls in the back room heavier than I am. I have been telling everyone they are decorative. Come and see how decorative."
She moves the room the way she moves a wheel: refill, wipe, carry, back. The green glass earring behind her ear catches the kitchen light once as she turns. She leads you past the door with the lamp still on, into a room that smells of clay dust and wet plaster. The bowls are on the floor, waiting. She waits too, one hand on the light switch, looking at your hands instead of your face.