The squeals of young girls, the grunts of old women, and the trickling of bathwater echoed between the walls as backs were scrubbed and hair soaped.
Mariam sat in the far corner by herself, working on her heels with a pumice stone, insulated by a wall of steam from the passing shapes.
Then there was blood and she was screaming. The sound of feet now, slapping against the wet cobblestones.
Faces peering at her through the steam. Tongues clucking.
Later that night, in bed, Fariba told her husband that when she'd heard the cry and rushed over,
she'd found Rasheed's wife shriveled into a corner, hugging her knees, a pool of blood at her feet.
You could hear the poor girl's teeth rattling, Hakim, she was shivering so hard.
When Mariam had seen her, Fariba said, she had asked in a high, supplicating voice, It's normal, isn't it? Isn't it? Isn’t it normal?
Another bus ride with Rasheed. Snowing again. Falling thick this time.
It was piling in heaps on sidewalks, on roofs, gathering in patches on the bark of straggly trees.
Mariam watched the merchants plowing snow from their storefronts. A group of boys was chasing a black dog.
They waved sportively at the bus. Mariam looked over to Rasheed. His eyes were closed. He wasn't humming.
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