when the frenzy of tea making and remembering who took green and who black started,
that Tariq motioned with his head and slipped out the door. Laila waited five minutes, then followed.
She found him three houses down the street, leaning against the wall at the entrance of a narrow mouthed alley between two adjacent houses.
He was humming an old Pashto song, by Ustad Awal Mir: Da ze ma ziba waian, da ze ma dada waian.
This is our beautiful land, this is our beloved land.
And he was smoking, another new habit, which he'd picked up from the guys Laila spotted him hanging around with these days.
Laila couldn't stand them, these new friends of Tariq's.
They all dressed the same way, pleated trousers, and tight shirts that accentuated their arms and chest.
They all wore too much cologne, and they all smoked.
They strutted around the neighborhood in groups, joking, laughing loudly, sometimes even calling after girls,
with identical stupid, self satisfied grins on their faces.
One of Tariq's friends, on the basis of the most passing of resemblances to Sylvester Stallone, insisted he be called Rambo.
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