Tariq tucked the gun into the waist of his denims. Then he said a thing both lovely and terrible.
“For you,” he said. “I'd kill with it for you, Laila.”
He slid closer to her and their hands brushed, once, then again.
When Tariq's fingers tentatively began to slip into hers, Laila let them.
And when suddenly he leaned over and pressed his lips to hers, she let him again.
At that moment, all of Mammy's talk of reputations and mynah birds sounded immaterial to Laila. Absurd, even.
In the midst of all this killing and looting, all this ugliness, it was a harmless thing to sit here beneath a tree and kiss Tariq.
A small thing. An easily forgivable indulgence. So she let him kiss her,
and when he pulled back she leaned in and kissed him,
heart pounding in her throat, her face tingling, a fire burning in the pit of her belly.
In June of that year, 1992, there was heavy fighting in West Kabul
between the Pashtun forces of the warlord Sayyaf and the Hazaras of the Wahdat faction.
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