A Thousand Splendid Suns

off his newly muscular arms-compliments of an old, rusty set of barbells
that he lifted daily in his yard. His face had lately adopted an expression
of playful contentiousness. He had taken to a self-conscious cocking of
his head when he spoke, slightly to the side, and to arching one eyebrow
when he laughed. He let his hair grow and had fallen into the habit of
tossing the floppy locks often and unnecessarily. The corrupt half grin
was a new thing too.
The last time Tariq was shooed out of the kitchen, his mother caught
Laila stealing a glance at him. Laila's heart jumped, and her eyes
fluttered guiltily. She quickly occupied herself with tossing the chopped
cucumber into the pitcher of salted, watered-down yogurt. But she could
sense Tariq's mother watching, her knowing, approving half smile.
The men filled their plates and glasses and took their meals to the
yard. Once they had taken their share, the women and children settled
on the floor around the sofrah and ate.
It was after fat sofrah was cleared and the plates were stacked in the
kitchen, when the frenzy of tea making and remembering who took
green and who black started, that Tariq motioned with his head and
slipped out the door.
Laila waited five minutes, then followed.
She found him three houses down the street, leaning against the wall at
the entrance of a narrow-mouthed alley between two adjacent houses.
He was humming an old Pashto song, by Ustad Awal Mir:
Da ze ma ziba waian, da ze ma dada waian. This is our beautiful land,
this is our beloved land.