when he thought nothing of looking at the private areas of other men's wives and sisters?
Mariam sat on his bed, embarrassed and confused. She cupped her face with her hands and closed her eyes.
She breathed and breathed until she felt calmer. Slowly, an explanation presented itself.
He was a man, after all, living alone for years before she had moved in. His needs differed from hers.
For her, all these months later, their coupling was still an exercise in tolerating pain.
His appetite, on the other hand, was fierce, sometimes bordering on the violent.
The way he pinned her down, his hard squeezes at her breasts, how furiously his hips worked.
He was a man. All those years without a woman. Could she fault him for being the way God had created him?
Mariam knew that she could never talk to him about this. It was unmentionable. But was it unforgivable?
She only had to think of the other man in her life. Jalil, a husband of three and father of nine at the time,
having relations with Nana out of wedlock. Which was worse, Rasheed's magazine or what Jalil had done?
And what entitled her anyway, a villager, a harami, to pass judgment?
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