“Your mother would kill you if she knew about your smoking,” Laila said, looking one way, then the other, before slipping into the alley.
“But she doesn't,” he said. He moved aside to make room. “That could change.” “Who is going to tell? You?”
Laila tapped her foot. “Tell your secret to the wind, but don't blame it for telling the trees.”
Tariq smiled, the one eyebrow arched. “Who said that?” “Khalil Gibran.” “You're a show off.” “Give me a cigarette.”
He shook his head no and crossed his arms. This was a new entry in his repertoire of poses:
back to the wall, arms crossed, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, his good leg casually bent.
“Why not?” “Bad for you,” he said. “And it's not bad for you?” “I do it for the girls.” “What girls?” He smirked.
“They think it's sexy.” “It's not.” “No?” “I assure you.” “Not sexy?” “You look khila, like a half wit.”
“That hurts,” he said. “What girls anyway?” “You're jealous.” “I'm indifferently curious.” “You can't be both.”
He took another drag and squinted through the smoke. “I'll bet they're talking about us now.”
In Laila's head, Mammy's voice rang out. Like a mynah bird in your hands. Slacken your grip and away it flies. Guilt bore its teeth into her.
Then Laila shut off Mammy's voice. Instead, she savored the way Tariq had said us. How thrilling, how conspiratorial, it sounded coming from him.
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