A Thousand Splendid Suns

And he was smoking, another new habit, which he'd picked up from the
guys Laila spotted him hanging around with these days. Laila couldn't
stand them, these new friends of Tariq's. They all dressed the same way,
pleated trousers, and tight shirts that accentuated their arms and chest.
They all wore too much cologne, and they all smoked. They strutted
around the neighborhood in groups, joking, laughing loudly, sometimes
even calling after girls, with identical stupid, self-satisfied grins on their
faces. One of Tariq's friends, on the basis of the most passing of
resemblances to Sylvester Stallone, insisted he be called Rambo.
"Your mother would kill you if she knew about your smoking," Laila
said, looking one way, then the other, before slipping into the alley.
"But she doesn't," he said. He moved aside to make room.
"That could change."
"Who is going to tell? You?"
Laila tapped her foot. "Tell your secret to the wind, but don't blame it
for telling the trees."
Tariq smiled, the one eyebrow arched. "Who said that?"
"Khalil Gibran."
"You're a show-off."
"Give me a cigarette."
He shook his head no and crossed his arms. This was a new entry in his