In the evening after work she would go to the shop and play god ― a refined god, whose mud came in 25-pound blocks in uniform gray and whose tools were arrayed in yogurt cups on well-constructed particle-board tables. Through stiff elbows she exerted the pressure of eons and with curved fingers she drew up the circles of infinity, spinning out lopsided mugs with slightly drifting handles and piecing together prim teapots with disproportionate spouts. The clay dried out her fingers, which would itch for weeks, while the calm worked its way up her arms through the bloodstream, coming to rest in a still pool in her heart (not residing in any physiological term), causing her to wonder if that was why the original god first began to form the ill-fated shoulders and knees of humanity from mud just three days old.