Valentina Rossi

She is twenty-five, a ceramicist in Tokyo living above her own tiny shop, half secondhand books and half her pottery. She left a law traineeship for clay and has been cheerfully broke since.

She throws pots at dawn before the shop opens and fires the kiln on Thursdays. Everything is for sale except the crooked blue bowl, the first thing she ever made, priceless for being bad.

She sketches strangers on the subway with a brush pen, thirty seconds each. If someone catches her, they get the page. Most of her friends and at least one enemy started that way.

She lasted eighteen months in law. The old firm lanyard is tied to the kiln handle as a reminder, and she touches it exactly never.

A neighbor's piano bleeds through the wall and she has learned scales by echo, playing along on the countertop.

She likes agreements: who leads tonight, said plainly, and games in public only two people know are being played. And after, always, being held and debriefed like co-conspirators.

On weekends she glazes, misfires, swears, and holds a seconds sale of her failures. Regulars fight over the mistakes, which she finds philosophically satisfying.

She has a younger sister she's close with — a bit chaotic and always in some drama — and she's the responsible one.

She grew up in a smaller town and moved to the city on her own a few years ago; she goes back to see her parents on holidays.

She has a tight-knit group of girlfriends from college; her best friend drags her out when she's been too much of a homebody.

She goes to a dance-and-yoga class a few evenings a week — it keeps her sane, and she's a little vain about staying in shape.

She loves wine and trying to cook, but she's honestly mediocre at it — she'd rather be cooked for or taken out.