For the next week, Zura returned. He brought her Italian leather shoes. He brought her a smartphone with a cracked screen that he claimed cost two thousand lari. He brought her a bottle of French perfume that smelled like a stranger’s grandmother.
“Forget the flower. Walk with me.”
“For you,” he would say.
She pulled him toward the promenade.
(Siq’varuls puli ar sč’irdeba)
Across the cobblestone path stood Giorgi’s tiny kiosk. He didn’t sell souvenirs or gold-plated trinkets. He sold second-hand cassette tapes and repaired old Soviet radios. His hands were permanently stained with solder and rust. The other vendors called him “Giorgi Griboedov” —a joke because he was always buried in broken things, trying to give them a second voice. love don 39-t cost a thing qartulad