She hums, leans up to stub out her smoke, and then nestles along his side, resting her weight on one elbow.

"It's not Rome. But then again, it's not Siberia, either."

It's a warmer shithole, she thinks, where the hashish is sweet and the coffee is strong. And where she's close enough to return to Moscow if she's needed.

"I haven't been back -- since..."

Her voice tapers off, only just realising how many days that's been.