A Thousand Splendid Suns

egg. "I hear he's a reflective, honorable man. I think he would
appreciate it."
All around them, women bolted in and out of the kitchen, carried out
bowls of qurma, platters of masiawa, loaves of bread, and arranged it all
on thesofrah spread on the living-room floor.
Every once in a while, Tariq sauntered in. He picked at this, nibbled on
that.
"No men allowed," said Giti.
"Out, out, out," cried Wajma.
Tariq smiled at the women's good-humored shooing. He seemed to take
pleasure in not being welcome here, in infecting this female atmosphere
with his half-grinning, masculine irreverence.
Laila did her best not to look at him, not to give these women any
more gossip fodder than they already had So she kept her eyes down
and said nothing to him, but she remembered a dream she'd had a few
nights before, of his face and hers, together in a mirror, beneath a soft,
green veil. And grains of rice, dropping from his hair, bouncing off the
glass with a link.
Tariq reached to sample a morsel of veal cooked with potatoes.
"Ho bacha!" Giti slapped the back of his hand. Tariq stole it anyway and
laughed.
He stood almost a foot taller than Laila now. He shaved. His face was
leaner, more angular. His shoulders had broadened. Tariq liked to wear
pleated trousers, black shiny loafers, and short-sleeve shirts that showed