A Thousand Splendid Suns

Mariam set about cleaning up the mess, marveling at how energetically
lazy men could be.
She didn't mean to go into Rasheed's room. But the cleaning took her
from the living room to the stairs, and then to the hallway upstairs and
to his door, and, the next thing she knew, she was in his room for the
first time, sitting on his bed, feeling like a trespasser.
She took in the heavy, green drapes, the pairs of polished shoes lined
up neatly along the wall, the closet door, where the gray paint had
chipped and showed the wood beneath. She spotted a pack of cigarettes
atop the dresser beside his bed. She put one between her lips and stood
before the small oval mirror on the wall. She puffed air into the mirror
and made ash-tapping motions. She put it back. She could never manage
the seamless grace with which Kabuli women smoked. On her, it looked
coarse, ridiculous.
Guiltily, she slid open the top drawer of his dresser.
She saw the gun first. It was black, with a wooden grip and a short
muzzle. Mariam made sure to memorize which way it was facing before
she picked it up. She turned it over in her hands. It was much heavier
than it looked. The grip felt smooth in her hand, and the muzzle was
cold. It was disquieting to her that Rasheed owned something whose sole
purpose was to kill another person. But surely he kept it for their safety.
Her safety.
Beneath the gun were several magazines with curling corners. Mariam
opened one. Something inside her dropped. Her mouth gaped of its own
will.