A Thousand Splendid Suns

"I'll count the minutes."
Almost ten years had passed since they had last seen each other. Laila's
mind flashed to all the times they'd met in the alley, kissing in secret.
She wondered how she must seem to him now. Did he still find her
pretty? Or did she seem withered to him, reduced, pitiable, like a fearful,
shuffling old woman? Almost ten years. But, for a moment, standing
there with Tariq in the sunlight, it was as though those years had never
happened. Her parents' deaths, her marriage to Rasheed, the killings, the
rockets, the Taliban, the beatings, the hunger, even her children, all of it
seemed like a dream, a bizarre detour, a mere interlude between that
last afternoon together and this moment.
Then Tariq's face changed, turned grave. She knew this expression. It
was the same look he'd had on his face that day, all those years ago
when they'd both been children, when he'd unstrapped his leg and gone
after Khadim. He reached with one hand now and touched the comer of
her lower lip.
"He did this to you," he said coldly.
At his touch, Laila remembered the frenzy of that afternoon again when
they'd conceived Aziza. His breath on her neck, the muscles of his hips
flexing, his chest pressing against her breasts, their hands interlocked.
"I wish I'd taken you with me," Tariq nearly whispered.
Laila had to lower her gaze, try not to cry.
"I know you're a married woman and a mother now. And here I am,