The cup leaned to the left and had a handle barely large enough for a finger. Tara kept it on her craft-fair table as a container for change. Every other piece was neat, glazed, and signed. A man in a green sweater approached just before closing and pointed to that one. Tara said it was not for sale. He asked whether he could trade something for it.
His name was Boris, and he restored old frames. He offered a small cherrywood frame, then to repair her wobbly shelf, and finally two tickets to a concert he did not particularly want to hear himself. Tara laughed at the last offer. She said she did not understand why he wanted an ugly cup so badly. Boris replied that it was the only one on the table that looked as though it had been made for a particular hand.
It was the first cup she had made with her father after his retirement. She wanted to teach him the craft, and he insisted he knew better. They argued about the handle and ended up laughing at the failure. Her father died two years later. Tara told a shorter version, without dates or illness. Boris stopped proposing trades. He asked whether he could buy an entirely ordinary coffee cup instead.
The following month he brought a frame containing a photograph of her stall, taken with her earlier permission. He did not ask for the crooked cup in exchange. Tara invited him to her workshop to see how the proper ones were made. He spent two hours trying to make a bowl that would not collapse. When it finally fell, he cursed the clay so seriously that Tara had to sit down laughing.
They began dating cautiously, because for years Tara had confused solitude with loyalty to memories. One evening Boris accidentally knocked over the crooked cup. Its handle broke off. He stood motionless, expecting the end of something larger than an object. Tara picked up the fragment and felt anger, then sadness, then a strange relief at not having to choose just one. She told him to fetch glue from the drawer, then give her ten quiet minutes.
They repaired it the next day. The join showed, and the handle remained too tight. Tara took the cup home and put it on a shelf, freeing her fair table for new work. Boris received a different cup there, straight and large enough for his fingers. When he asked its price, she said it was a gift. For the first time she felt no need to add a story explaining why she was allowed to give something away.