ticket salesmen are calling out destinations to us. "Shiraz", "Kerman", "Yazd", "Ahwaz!", and of course "Tehran", "Tehran", "Tehran!". They blurt out the names with unbelievable speed and routine that seems almost like a reflex. Kurosh looks at me questioningly, and we start to laugh. It must be contagious because the "barkers" look at us amused and wait for us to reveal our destination.
"Look at them," says Kurosh. "They look like little birds with their beaks wide open to get fed by their parents."
It is true, these always open, never full mouths, shouting at us from their "nests", remind one of animals unable to fly out into the wide world.
"Come, let's go to 'Ta'avoni Jek', the leading bus company."
On my final day I avoid any protest and the remark that I really prefer old busses. The ride only costs a few dollars anyway.
The bus ticket in my bag is like a great burden, but I must have enough strength to carry it. We are hardly sitting in our perhaps hundredth taxi when I feel the consolation of his familiar closeness, and I am ready for one last beautiful day together. As so often, his arm is on the rack behind the back seat, and his slender fingers are playing with a lock of hair that has escaped my headscarf.
"On our last day, let's go to a classy restaurant. I would like it to be my treat. Say yes, do me the favor. No dark grilled liver joints today, OK?"
"When you ask so nicely, how can I say no? Although I think you've already spent far too

think you've already spent far too much money."
"You have no idea how much I enjoy it."
He tells the driver the address and soon we're standing in front of an inviting building. The dining room is decorated with classical miniature paintings, and a long wall shows a popular old Iranian motif: The pleasure-loving poet sits in the shade of a tree waiting for a chalice filled with wine by a beautiful woman.
"That's where I'd like to be sitting," I say pointing to the mural.
"Writing poems for me?"
"No, I would ask you, my handsome boy, to fill my cup with your fine vintage."
A foreign tour group is sitting at a long table in the middle of the room. The waiter brings us to a place in the corner. At the next table two men are busy with their food. Most likely the group's bus drivers, I think. They don't look like business men anyway, and who else would go to lunch in an expensive restaurant? Kurosh sits next to me."Why don't you sit across from me?"
"I want to be as close to you as possible to fill your cup."
"We're not alone here. It looks a little strange to sit next to each other."
"Don't worry, Azizam."
Snippets of English reach us from the tour group, and I believe I hear a strong American accent. I let Kurosh pick out our lunch, and he chooses various delicacies with almost childish glee. The