She understood with a dread that was like a blinding whack to the side of her head that what she was witnessing was nothing less than a courtship.
When she'd at last worked up the nerve, Mariam went to his room.
Rasheed lit a cigarette, and said, “Why not?” Mariam knew right then that she was defeated.
She'd half expected, half hoped, that he would deny everything, feign surprise, maybe even outrage, at what she was implying.
She might have had the upper hand then. She might have succeeded in shaming him.
But it stole her grit, his calm acknowledgment, his matter of fact tone.
“Sit down,” he said. He was lying on his bed, back to the wall, his thick, long legs splayed on the mattress.
“Sit down before you faint and cut your head open.” Mariam felt herself drop onto the folding chair beside his bed.
“Hand me that ashtray, would you?” he said. Obediently, she did.
Rasheed had to be sixty or more now, thought Mariam, and in fact Rasheed himself did not know his exact age.
His hair had gone white, but it was as thick and coarse as ever.
There was a sag now to his eyelids and the skin of his neck, which was wrinkled and leathery.
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