Tang's Patient Cup

Kiwi glued the handle back onto Tang's cup and set it on the flat rock in the sun.

"Don't touch it," he said.

"I wasn't going to touch it."

"You were looking at it in a touching way."

Tang sat down on his hands, which is the most Tang can do about a thing like this.

"How long?"

"An hour."

The cup sat there. It was a good mend. Two twists of vine held the handle while the glue set, and a pale line ran along the crack like a small pale river.

"How long now?"

"Tang. It has been some of the hour."

Tang waited. A beetle went across the rock and Tang watched the entire journey.

"What if we blew on it?"

"That doesn't help."

Tang blew on it.

"Tang."

"I helped a bit."

Kiwi looked at the sun. Then he looked at the cup. Then he looked at the sun again, and made a small satisfied noise, and folded his arms.

Tang looked at Kiwi.

"You keep checking it," said Tang.

"I am monitoring it."

"You've monitored it eleven times."

"That is a completely normal number of times."

The stream went past.

And then Tang, who had lasted longer than anyone would have guessed and much longer than he had ever lasted before, reached out and picked up the cup by the handle.

"TANG—"

The handle held.

It was dry. Not nearly dry. Dry the way a stone is dry.

Tang turned the cup over in his paws. Then he looked at Kiwi, and Kiwi looked at the ferns.

"How long has that been dry?" said Tang.

"A while," said Kiwi.

"How long is a while?"

Kiwi did not answer. The honest answer was since about the third check. But Kiwi had said an hour, and Kiwi is the sort of person who, having said an hour, does an hour.

Tang sat down very suddenly, holding the cup, and made a noise like a kettle.

He drank out of that cup all afternoon, and he never once held it round the middle. He held it by the handle, every single time, slowly, watching Kiwi.

And every single time, Kiwi watched the handle.

And every single time, it held.