“Ho bacha!” Giti slapped the back of his hand. Tariq stole it anyway and laughed.
He stood almost a foot taller than Laila now. He shaved. His face was leaner, more angular. His shoulders had broadened.
Tariq liked to wear pleated trousers, black shiny loafers, and short sleeve shirts that showed off his newly muscular arms
compliments of an old, rusty set of barbells that he lifted daily in his yard.
His face had lately adopted an expression of playful contentiousness. The corrupt half grin was a new thing too.
The last time Tariq was shooed out of the kitchen, his mother caught Laila stealing a glance at him.
Laila's heart jumped, and her eyes fluttered guiltily.
She quickly occupied herself with tossing the chopped cucumber into the pitcher of salted, watered down yogurt.
But she could sense Tariq's mother watching, her knowing, approving half smile.
The men filled their plates and glasses and took their meals to the yard.
Once they had taken their share, the women and children settled on the floor around the sofrah and ate.
It was after the sofrah was cleared and the plates were stacked in the kitchen,
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