And how reassuring to hear him say it like that casually, naturally. Us. It acknowledged their connection, crystallized it.
“And what are they saying?” “That we're canoeing down the River of Sin,” he said.
“Eating a slice of Impiety Cake.” “Riding the Rickshaw of Wickedness?” Laila chimed in. “Making Sacrilege Qurma.”
They both laughed. Then Tariq remarked that her hair was getting longer. “It's nice,” he said. Laila hoped she wasn't blushing.
“You changed the subject.” “From what?” “The empty headed girls who think you're sexy.” “You know.”
“Know what?” “That I only have eyes for you.” Laila swooned inside.
She tried to read his face but was met by a look that was indecipherable:
the cheerful, cretinous grin at odds with the narrow, half desperate look in his eyes.
A clever look, calculated to fall precisely at the midpoint between mockery and sincerity.
Tariq crushed his cigarette with the heel of his good foot.
“So what do you think about all this?” “The party?” “Who's the half wit now? I meant the Mujahideen, Laila. Their coming to Kabul.”
Oh. She started to tell him something Babi had said, about the troublesome marriage of guns and ego,
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