It takes some time for Alan to walk to the wheel. He stays bent over his notepad for a minute or so, putting the finishing touches on whatever it is he's drawing in it. He finally stands, flipping the book closed and standing to head over to the only wheel left open. The one next to Shannon, on the end of the row, is the only one remaining unclaimed, so with a brief, sidelong glance at her, he slips into the stool beside it and scoops up a glob of clay, letting it splat in the center of the wheel.<br/><br/>He doesn't say anything, just pulls off his sweatshirt, revealing a plain black t-shirt underneath, and flicks the power switch on. His fingers are long and almost delicate, even for a guy; artists's fingers. He cups them around the mound of clay and leans on the pedal, gently starting the wheel turning. It's obvious he's done this before, and just as obvious that he's pretty good at it. Within a few minutes, a slender column of wet clay starts to take form under his fingers, tall and straight.