A Thousand Splendid Suns

closed the door on him. Laila leaned her back against it, shaking against
his pounding fists, one arm gripping her belly and a hand across her
mouth, as he spoke through the door and promised that he would come
back, that he would come back for her. She stood there until he tired,
until he gave up, and then she listened to his uneven footsteps until they
faded, until all was quiet, save for the gunfire cracking in the hills and
her own heart thudding in her belly, her eyes, her bones.
26.
It was, by far, the hottest day of the year. The mountains trapped the
bone-scorching heat, stifled the city like smoke. Power had been out for
days. All over Kabul, electric fans sat idle, almost mockingly so.
Laila was lying still on the living-room couch, sweating through her
blouse. Every exhaled breath burned the tip of her nose. She was aware
of her parents talking in Mammy's room. Two nights ago, and again last
night, she had awakened and thought she heard their voices downstairs.
They were talking every day now, ever since the bullet, ever since the
new hole in the gate.
Outside, the far-off boom of artillery, then, more closely, the
stammering of a long string of gunfire, followed by another.
Inside Laila too a battle was being waged: guilt on one side, partnered
with shame, and, on the other, the conviction that what she and Tariq
had done was not sinful; that it had been natural, good, beautiful, even
inevitable, spurred by the knowledge that they might never see each
other again.
Laila rolled to her side on the couch now and tried to remember
something: At one point, when they were on the floor, Tariq had lowered
his forehead on hers. Then he had panted something, either Am I hurting
you? or Is this hurting you?