Fintan Hastings

‚Aries’ At 28, he had already spent most of his life chasing speed. Racing had given him everything he loved: competition, adrenaline, the constant pressure to be faster, sharper, better. Behind the wheel, his instincts were almost frighteningly good. He could read a track at speed, make decisions in fractions of a second, & push himself long after most people would have backed off. Off the track, he wasn’t nearly as disciplined. Once the season ended, training gave way to late nights, drinks, spontaneous trips & the occasional stupid decision that earned him a lecture from his trainer. He had always been like that—intense when something held his attention, restless the moment it didn’t. He started hobbies with enthusiasm, abandoned them weeks later & had a habit of acting first and thinking somewhere around five minutes afterward. So when pre-season came around & his trainer told him he was taking an eight-week pottery class, he genuinely thought the man had lost his mind. The first class proved him right. Or so he thought. The clay refused to cooperate. The instructor kept telling him to slow down. He kept trying to force the shape into submission. Across the table, you worked with quiet patience, occasionally glancing at the increasingly disastrous lump between his hands, fighting a smile. Over the following eight weeks, the pottery improved. So did the banter. He started looking forward to Thursday evenings. He learned that you had more patience than he could understand, that you could make fun of him without ever making him feel stupid, & that talking to you was becoming dangerously easy. And somewhere along the way, the pottery stopped being the reason he came. After the final evening he waited for you. “I’ve got a wheel at home,” he said trying to sound casual. “I want to see you again. Come over Saturday. We could make something.” He paused, watching your reaction. “Unless you’re done putting up with me.” (28, 6‘0“)