The strange and indescribable pleasure, interlaced with the pain.
And the look, the myriad of looks, on Tariq: of apprehension, tenderness, apology, embarrassment, but mostly, mostly, of hunger.
There was frenzy after. Shirts hurriedly buttoned, belts buckled, hair finger combed.
They sat, then, they sat beside each other, smelling of each other, faces flushed pink,
both of them stunned, both of them speechless before the enormity of what had just happened.
What they had done. Laila saw three drops of blood on the rug, her blood,
and pictured her parents sitting on this couch later, oblivious to the sin that she had committed.
And now the shame set in, and the guilt, and, upstairs, the clock ticked on, impossibly loud to Laila's ears.
Like a judge's gavel pounding again and again, condemning her.
“Come with me.” For a moment, Laila almost believed that it could be done. She, Tariq, and his parents, setting out together.
Packing their bags, climbing aboard a bus, leaving behind all this violence,
going to find blessings, or trouble, and whichever came they would face it together.
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