A Thousand Splendid Suns

He ate, smoked, went to bed, sometimes came back in the middle of the
night for a brief and, of late, quite rough session of coupling. He was
more apt to sulk these days, to fault her cooking, to complain about
clutter around the yard or point out even minor uncleanliness in the
house. Occasionally, he took her around town on Fridays, like he used to,
but on the sidewalks he walked quickly and always a few steps ahead of
her, without speaking, unmindful of Mariam who almost had to run to
keep up with him. He wasn't so ready with a laugh on these outings
anymore. He didn't buy her sweets or gifts, didn't stop and name places
to her as he used to. Her questions seemed to irritate him.
One night, they were sitting in the living room listening to the radio.
Winter was passing. The stiff winds that plastered snow onto the face and
made the eyes water had calmed. Silvery fluffs of snow were melting off
the branches of tall elms and would be replaced in a few weeks with
stubby, pale green buds. Rasheed was shaking his foot absently to the
tabla beat of a Hamahang song, his eyes crinkled against cigarette
smoke.
"Are you angry with me?" Mariam asked.
Rasheed said nothing. The song ended and the news came on. A
woman's voice reported that President Daoud Khan had sent yet another
group of Soviet consultants back to Moscow, to the expected displeasure
of the Kremlin.
"I worry that you are angry with me."
Rasheed sighed