At one point, when they were on the floor, Tariq had lowered his forehead on hers.
Then he had panted something, either Am I hurting you? Or Is this hurting you?
Laila couldn't decide which he had said. Am I hurting you? Is this hurting you?
Only two weeks since he had left, and it was already happening. Time, blunting the edges of those sharp memories.
Laila bore down mentally. What had he said? It seemed vital, suddenly, that she know.
Laila closed her eyes. Concentrated. With the passing of time, she would slowly tire of this exercise.
She would find it increasingly exhausting to conjure up, to dust off, to resuscitate once again what was long dead.
There would come a day, in fact, years later, when Laila would no longer bewail his loss. Or not as relentlessly; not nearly.
There would come a day when the details of his face would begin to slip from memory's grip,
when overhearing a mother on the street call after her child by Tariq's name would no longer cut her adrift.
She would not miss him as she did now, when the ache of his absence was her unremitting companion like the phantom pain of an amputee.
Except every once in a long while, when Laila was a grown woman, ironing a shirt or pushing her children on a swing set,
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