Out the window snow dirtily splotches fields running down from the city's edge to the Dniester's banks. We were going to hide for the rest of our lives over there, in the dead places; hide in abjection, ill-health, poverty. Make a home of those things. Why? Rina wanted to, she had a thing about the Trans-Dniester. My cousin talked us out of it: she wanted us to go to Vienna and drink coffee with buttery complements. I told her I embrace Islam, but not its twee shadow-bodies – and anyway prefer tea, like any Turk. She told me I'm not one, I said well neither are you. Then we kissed, as cousins do; and no hard feelings. But no Trans-Dniester, either, for Rina.