The Cable Car – Part 2: Khachapuri for Two

The car moved with a groan an hour later, and by the time they stepped onto the platform, Giorgi was pale and grinning, still holding her hand.

"I am not going to let go," he said.

"You will have to eventually."

"Eventually is a very long time," said Giorgi, and she laughed.

On Saturday, he arrived at her flat with a bag of flour, a block of cheese and an expression of grim determination. Her kitchen was small and warm, with a window that looked over a courtyard full of washing lines and a balcony where an old man was playing the accordion.

"My grandmother's recipe," said Nino, tying on an apron. "Do exactly what I say."

"I always do exactly what I am told," said Giorgi.

"That is a lie."

"It is a very small lie."

She showed him how to knead the dough, how to stretch it thin, how to fold it into a boat around the cheese. He was clumsy and earnest, flour to his elbows, and the first khachapuri collapsed in the oven.

"It looks like a shipwreck," said Nino.

"It tastes like a shipwreck," said Giorgi, after a bite. "But a very delicious one."

The second one was better. By the third, they were eating it standing at the counter, laughing, melted cheese on their chins.

"Can I ask you something?" said Giorgi.

"Yes."

"Do you still miss her?"

Nino stopped chewing. The accordion outside played something soft.

"Every day," she said. "But today, a little less."

Giorgi set down his plate. "That is the best thing I have heard all week."

"Can I ask you something?" said Nino.

"Yes."

"Why did you carry churchkhela on a cable car? Not a sandwich."

"Because I wanted to meet someone who would take one," said Giorgi, simply. "And you did."

Nino's heart gave a quick, happy jump. She stepped closer, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Can I kiss you?" she asked. "Here, in the kitchen, with flour all over us?"

"Yes," said Giorgi. "And if you say stop, I will eat another shipwreck."

"That is a very brave penalty," said Nino, and kissed him.

It was warm and floury and a little clumsy, the taste of melted cheese sweet between them, his hand coming up to rest against her waist. Outside, the accordion changed to a livelier tune, and neither of them noticed.

When they parted, both of them were laughing.

"Green?" asked Giorgi.

"Green," said Nino. "Very green. Now bake another one, Giorgi. The accordion man is hungry."

"Everyone is hungry," said Giorgi, and rolled up his sleeves.