The Ceramic Cafe – Part 2: Glaze

They ate khinkali at a tiny place with mismatched chairs, hot dumplings dripping with broth, laughing about how badly she'd held them. They drank red wine out of a clay jug. The rain had stopped, and the streets shone under the lamps.

"I have the kiln room open tonight," said Adam, walking her back along the old street. "Your mug is in the firing. I would like to show you."

"Is that a line?"

"It is also a mug."

The kiln room behind the cafe was low and warm, with the old brick kiln glowing orange through its little window and shelves of unfired pots in the dim light. Adam opened the peephole and she peered in at the red-hot mug, glowing like a coal.

"It looks alive," she whispered.

"It is. It will change colour as it cools." He stood close behind her. "Nino, I would like to kiss you, if that's welcome."

"It's welcome," she said, turning.

The kiss was gentle, with clay-roughened hands at her waist and the kiln's heat on her back. She laughed against his mouth and kissed him again, tasting wine and smoke. They stayed there a long time in the glow, learning each other slowly.

His flat was above the cafe, with a narrow bed and a balcony over the roofs. They undressed by the open window, with the night air cool on their skin and the city murmuring below. There was no hurry. His hands were patient and certain, hers curious, and everything was gentle and warm and a little amazed.

In the morning the kiln had cooled. Adam lifted out the lopsided mug and held it up to the light. The glaze had turned a deep, impossible blue, shot through with green.

"It's beautiful," said Nino.

"It was always going to be." He handed it to her. "Coffee?"

She drank it sitting in the window with the sun on the roofs, in a cup that finally looked exactly like hers.

More romantic stories: Salt and Sugar · The Chess Club · The Glassblower's Daughter