Mariam opened one. Something inside her dropped. Her mouth gaped of its own will.
On every page were women, beautiful women, who wore no shirts, no trousers, no socks or underpants.
They wore nothing at all. They lay in beds amid tumbled sheets and gazed back at Mariam with half-lidded eyes.
In most of the pictures, their legs were apart, and Mariam had a full view of the dark place between.
In some, the women were prostrated as if—God forbid this thought—in sujda for prayer.
They looked back over their shoulders with a look of bored contempt. Mariam quickly put the magazine back where she'd found it.
She felt drugged. Who were these women? How could they allow themselves to be photographed this way?
Her stomach revolted with distaste. Was this what he did then, those nights that he did not visit her room?
Had she been a disappointment to him in this particular regard? And what about all his talk of honor and propriety,
his disapproval of the female customers, who, after all, were only showing him their feet to get fitted for shoes?
A woman's face, he'd said, is her husband's business only. Surely the women on these pages had husbands, some of them must.
At the least, they had brothers. If so, why did Rasheed insist that she cover
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