the heat of his breath on her mouth, her own reflection in his hazel eyes.
She'd kissed him twice more since the time beneath the tree, longer, more passionately, and, she thought, less clumsily.
Both times, she'd met him secretly in the dim alley where he'd smoked a cigarette the day of Mammy's lunch party.
The second time, she'd let him touch her breast. “Laila?” “Yes, Babi.” “Pyramid. Area. Where are you?”
“Sorry, Babi. I was, uh... Let's see. Pyramid. Pyramid. One third the area of the base times the height.”
Babi nodded uncertainly, his gaze lingering on her, and Laila thought of Tariq's hands,
squeezing her breast, sliding down the small of her back, as the two of them kissed and kissed.
One day that same month of June, Giti was walking home from school with two classmates.
Only three blocks from Giti's house, a stray rocket struck the girls.
Later that terrible day, Laila learned that Nila, Giti's mother, had run up and down the street where Giti was killed,
collecting pieces of her daughter's flesh in an apron, screeching hysterically.
Giti's decomposing right foot, still in its nylon sock and purple sneaker, would be found on a rooftop two weeks later.
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