“He personally oversaw the burial. He said a prayer at their grave. It'll be a token of thanks for his decency.”
Mammy cracked another boiled egg. “I hear he's a reflective, honorable man. I think he would appreciate it.”
All around them, women bolted in and out of the kitchen, carried out bowls of qurma, platters of masiawa, loaves of bread,
and arranged it all on the sofrah spread on the living room floor.
Every once in a while, Tariq sauntered in. He picked at this, nibbled on that.
“No men allowed,” said Giti. “Out, out, out,” cried Wajma. Tariq smiled at the women's good humored shooing.
He seemed to take pleasure in not being welcome here, in infecting this female atmosphere with his half grinning, masculine irreverence.
Laila did her best not to look at him, not to give these women any more gossip fodder than they already had.
So she kept her eyes down and said nothing to him, but she remembered a dream she'd had a few nights before,
of his face and hers, together in a mirror, beneath a soft, green veil.
And grains of rice, dropping from his hair, bouncing off the glass with a clink.
Tariq reached to sample a morsel of veal cooked with potatoes.
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