A Thousand Splendid Suns

She wished she'd had the chance to wash her face, at least comb her
hair.
"But he'll have the last laugh, the cousin," Tariq said- "He painted those
trousers with watercolor. When the Taliban are gone, he'll just wash them
off" He smiled-Laila noticed that he had a missing tooth of his own-and
looked down at his hands. "Indeed"
He was wearing apakol on his head, hiking boots, and a black wool
sweater tucked into the waist of khaki pants. He was half smiling,
nodding slowly. Laila didn't remember him saying this before, this word
indeed, and this pensive gesture, the fingers making a tent in his lap,
the nodding, it was new too. Such an adult word, such an adult gesture,
and why should it be so startling? He was an adult now, Tariq, a
twenty-five-year-old man with slow movements and a tiredness to his
smile. Tall, bearded, slimmer than in her dreams of him, but with
strong-looking hands, workman's hands, with tortuous, full veins. His face
was still lean and handsome but not fair-skinned any longer; his brow
had a weathered look to it, sunburned, like his neck, the brow of a
traveler at the end of a long and wearying journey. His pakol was pushed
back on his head, and she could see that he'd started to lose his hair. The
hazel of his eyes was duller than she remembered, paler, or perhaps it
was merely the light in the room.
Laila thought of Tariq's mother, her unhurried manners, the clever
smiles, the dull purple wig. And his father, with his squinty gaze, his wry
humor. Earlier, at the door, with a voice full of tears, tripping over her
own words, she'd told Tariq what she thought had happened to him and
his parents, and he had shaken his head. So now she asked him how
they were doing, his parents. But she regretted the question when Tariq
looked down and said, a bit distractedly, "Passed on."