extension of her, whose shadow sprung beside hers in every memory. How could he leave
her? She slapped him. Then she slapped him again and pulled at his hair, and he had to take
her by the wrists, and he was saying something she couldn't make out, he was saying it
softly, reasonably, and, somehow, they ended up brow to brow, nose to nose, and she could
feel the heat of his breath on her lips again.
And when, suddenly, he leaned in, she did too.
In the coming days and weeks, Laila would scramble frantically to commit it all to
memory, what happened next Like an art lover running out of a burning museum, she
would grab whatever she could a look, a whisper, a moan to salvage from perishing, to
preserve. But time is the most unforgiving of fires, and she couldn't, in the end, save it all
Still, she had these: that first, tremendous pang of pain down below. The slant of sunlight
on the rug. Her heel grazing the cold hardness of his leg, lying beside them, hastily
unstrapped. Her hands cupping his elbows. The upside down, mandolin shaped birthmark
beneath his collarbone, glowing red. His face hovering over hers. His black curls dangling,
tickling her lips, her chin. The terror that they would be discovered. The disbelief at their
own boldness, their courage. The strange and indescribable pleasure, interlaced with the
pain. And the look, the myriad of looks, on Tariq: of apprehension, tenderness, apology,
embarrassment, but mostly, mostly, of hunger.
There was frenzy after. Shirts hurriedly buttoned, belts buckled, hair finger combed. They
sat, then, they sat beside each other, smelling of each other, faces flushed pink, both of
them stunned, both of them speechless before the enormity of what had just happened.
What they had done.
Laila saw three drops of blood on the rug, her blood, and pictured her parents sitting on
this couch later, oblivious to the sin that she had committed. And now the shame set in, and
the guilt, and, upstairs, the clock ticked on, impossibly loud to Laila's ears. Like a judge's
gavel pounding again and again, condemning her.
Then Tariq said, "Come with me."
For a moment, Laila almost believed that it could be done. She, Tariq, and his parents,
setting out together Packing their bags, climbing aboard a bus, leaving behind all this
violence, going to find blessings, or trouble, and whichever came they would face it
together. The bleak isolation awaiting her, the murderous loneliness, it didn't have to be.
She could go. They could be together.
They would have more afternoons like this.
"I want to marry you, Laila."
For the first time since they were on the floor, she raised her eyes to meet his. She
searched his face. There was no playfulness this time. His look was one of conviction, of
guileless yet ironclad earnestness.
"Tariq "
"Let me marry you, Laila. Today. We could get married today."