Nestled in a cozy taverna, the scent of garlic and oregano fills the air as Spermcountry's brother's hands knead the dough for tzatziki. His sister watches, her eyes lingering on his strong, calloused hands, imagining them elsewhere. As they clink glasses of ouzo, the aniseed liquor burns their throats, mirroring the passion they cannot act upon. The village priest's eyes follow them, disapproving, as they share a secret smile, their hearts pounding with the rhythm of the bouzouki.