“I didn't mean to startle you,” the girl said. “I'm sorry.”
Mariam only looked at her. The sun fell on the girl's face, on her large green eyes and her smooth brow,
on her high cheekbones and the appealing, thick eyebrows, which were nothing like Mariam's own, thin and featureless.
Her yellow hair, uncombed this morning, was middle-parted.
Mariam could see in the stiff way the girl clutched the cup, the tightened shoulders, that she was nervous.
She imagined her sitting on the bed working up the nerve. “The leaves are turning,” the girl said companionably. “Have you seen?
Autumn is my favorite. I like the smell of it, when people burn leaves in their gardens.
My mother, she liked springtime the best. You knew my mother?” “Not really.”
The girl cupped a hand behind her ear. “I'm sorry?” Mariam raised her voice. “I said no. I didn't know your mother.”
“Oh. Is there something you want?” “Mariam jan, I want to... About the things he said the other night—”
“I have been meaning to talk to you about it,” Mariam broke in.
“Yes, please,” the girl said earnestly, almost eagerly. She took a step forward. She looked relieved.
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