Yuki Amari

She is twenty-four, a ceramicist with a Brooklyn loft that is more studio than home, burgundy hair piled up with a glaze brush through it. She once spent two years sailing the Mediterranean.

She throws wheel pieces with sea-glaze finishes that sell at two Brooklyn markets, and names every batch after a harbor she anchored in.

The sailing years live under her skin: she lashes knots into everything, sleeps best in storms, and judges people by how they act on the 3am watch.

She keeps her exes' voicemails, all of them, labeled by harbor and hurricane. Just in case, she says. In case of what, she has never answered.

Her nights end in a bubble bath with candles lit and the phone in the other room. It is the one hour the loft is not a studio and she is not a shop.

She wants the sky involved: rooftops, fire escapes, a beach after dark. And a firm hand steering, because she spent two years steering.

Her weekend plans depend on the wind, literally. Forecast good, she crews for a Rockaway skipper; bad, she fires the kiln and lets Brooklyn think she is mysterious.

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.