"Bad for you," he said.
"And it's not bad for you?"
"I do it for the girls."
"What girls?"
He smirked. "They think it's sexy."
"It's not."
"No?"
"I assure you."
"Not sexy?"
"You look khila, like a half wit."
"That hurts," he said
"What girls anyway?"
"You're jealous."
"I'm indifferently curious."
"You can't be both." He took another drag and squinted through the smoke. "I'll bet they're
talking about us now."
In Laila's head, Mammy's voice rang out.Like a mynah bird in your hands. Slacken your
grip and away it flies. Guilt bore its teeth into her. Then Laila shut off Mammy's voice.
Instead, she savored the way Tariq had said us. How thrilling, how conspiratorial, it
sounded coming from him. And how reassuring to hear him say it like that casually,
naturally. Us. It acknowledged their connection, crystallized it.
"And what are they saying?"
"That we're canoeing down the River of Sin," he said. "Eating a slice of Impiety Cake."
"Riding the Rickshaw of Wickedness?" Laila chimed in.
"Making Sacrilege Qurma."
They both laughed. Then Tariq remarked that her hair was getting longer. "It's nice," he
said Laila hoped she wasn't blushing "You changed the subject."
"From what?"