The small shaving nick just above his Adam's apple. The rough pads of his tobacco stained fingers when he slid the ring on her.
The pen. It’s not working. The search for a new pen. The contract.
The signing, his sure handed, hers quavering. The prayers.
Noticing, in the mirror, that Rasheed had trimmed his eyebrows.
And, somewhere in the room, Mariam watching. The air choking with her disapproval.
Laila could not bring herself to meet the older woman's gaze.
Lying beneath his cold sheets that night, she watched him pull the curtains shut.
She was shaking even before his fingers worked her shirt buttons, tugged at the drawstring of her trousers.
He was agitated. His fingers fumbled endlessly with his own shirt, with undoing his belt.
Laila had a full view of his sagging breasts, his protruding belly button, the small blue vein in the center of it,
the tufts of thick white hair on his chest, his shoulders, and upper arms.
She felt his eyes crawling all over her. “God help me, I think I love you,” he said.
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