The Art of Seeing: The Chance Encounters Series, #46

By Monica Moss

A recently divorced man, Alex, who struggles with an alcohol addiction goes to a pottery class his friend arranged for him so he could get his life back on track only to meet the instructor of the class, Gabe, who lost his husband and child as well as his sight in a car accident a few years prior. When Gabe walks through the class and guides everyone's hands as they shape the clay, Alex immediately has an attraction to him. After class, he waits to see the man and thank him for the great class only to realize when he walks away and unfolds his walking stick that he's blind. More intrigued he goes back to the class and this time tries to flirt with the instructor but his advances and invitation to hang out sometime get rejected by Gabe. However over time as he continues to frequent the class they soon start a friendship and this time Gabe says yes to getting to know each other outside class. As they spend time together feelings of more than friendship grow between them. But Alex isn't out as gay and doesn't know how to integrate his new love with his old life with his ex-wife and children. And Gabe feels the guilt of moving on from his deceased husband and child. Can they overcome their fears and fight for their love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Short and Sweet Publishing
• Release date: Feb 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224848003

Monica Moss

Monica Moss is a short contemporary romance author. She's always loved short stories and flash fiction. She writes romance flash fiction about chance encounters, love enduring prejudice, and taking the leap of faith for the love you deserve. 

Book preview

ALEX

In the wake of my divorce, life felt like a series of empty spaces and fractured dreams. The weight of loneliness bore down on me, and the taste of bitter regret lingered on my lips. Alcohol became both my crutch and my captor, an escape from the wreckage of a once-promising marriage. The days blurred together, each one a monotonous echo of the last.

It was during this desolate period that my friend, Mark, emerged as a beacon of hope. Concern etched across his face, he gently suggested a pottery class as a means to navigate the jagged terrain of my post-divorce life.

Alex, you've got to break free from this cycle, Mark urged, his eyes reflecting a mixture of empathy and determination. Trust me, pottery might just be the escape you need.

I leaned against the bar in the dimly lit pub, my gaze fixed on the amber liquid swirling in my glass. Pottery? Seriously, Mark? I'm not exactly the arts and crafts type.

He chuckled, a sound laced with sincerity. I know it sounds unconventional, but hear me out. This isn't just about shaping clay; it's about shaping your life. Plus, it's a great way to meet new people, maybe even make a friend or two.

I rolled my eyes, taking a sip of the bitter liquid. Friendship isn't really on my agenda right now. I'm just trying to survive.

Mark leaned in, lowering his voice. Survival is overrated, my friend. You need more than that. You need to live, to feel alive. And I think this pottery class might be the kickstart you're looking for.

His words carried the promise of second chances and the possibility of self-discovery. At first, the idea seemed ludicrous. Pottery? What could spinning clay on a wheel do for a man drowning in the remnants of his past? But Mark persisted, convinced that the tactile nature of the art form could be a catalyst for change.

Look, I know it sounds unconventional, he continued, but this class could be the fresh start you're yearning for. A chance to reshape not just the clay but your life.

I sighed, contemplating his words. Fine, I'll give it a shot. But I'm not promising any miracles.

Mark clapped me on the back, a wide grin spreading across his face. That's the spirit! Who knows, you might discover a hidden talent for sculpting. And who knows what—or who—else you might find in that class.

Reluctantly, I agreed, yearning for anything to pull me from the abyss that had become my existence. Little did I know that this seemingly mundane suggestion would become the fulcrum upon which the pivot of my life rested. The wheels of the pottery class would not only shape clay but also mold my fractured soul.

GABE

In the quiet hum of my daily life, every step becomes a deliberate dance with darkness. I navigate the world without the luxury of sight, a perpetual student in the school of shadows. The weight of a profound loss presses upon me like an indelible mark etched into my soul — the loss of my husband and child, and with them, the loss of the world as I once knew it.

Grief, an uninvited companion, clasps its hands around my heart, squeezing tight, refusing to let go. Each day brings the challenge of moving forward, a hesitant journey through the abyss of memories. Their absence, a void that no amount of tactile exploration or auditory immersion can fill.

The theme of loss, grief, and the ceaseless struggle to find new meaning in life haunts my every waking moment. As I sculpt clay with my hands, I mold my emotions into tangible forms. The pottery studio, my refuge, becomes a sanctuary where I can shape my sorrow into something beautiful. Teaching others to find solace in the tactile world of pottery, I discover a purpose, a reason to rise each morning.

It came to me gradually, the idea of starting my own studio. A place where the whispering hum of wheels and the therapeutic squelch of clay beneath skilled fingers could drown out the relentless echoes of my past. The joy of guiding eager hands through the creative process, witnessing the metamorphosis of raw clay into crafted art, became my solace.

Despite the fulfillment I find in teaching and helping others discover the therapeutic power of pottery, a shadow persists. Loneliness, a silent companion, lingers in the corners of my studio, a ghostly reminder of a life once lived in shared laughter and love.

I've given up on the notion of ever truly being happy again. The vibrant colors that once adorned my world have faded into monochrome memories. The laughter of my husband and the innocent babble of my child are but echoes in the corridors of my mind. As I guide others through the art of creation, my own canvas remains a palette of muted shades.

Yet, in the stillness of the studio, amidst the soft whispers of clay and the rhythmic hum of the wheel, there lies a paradox. While I've surrendered