“Nomad jewelry,” she said. “I've seen them make it. They melt the coins people throw at them and make jewelry.”
“Let's see him bring you gold next time, your precious father. Let's see him.”
When it was time for Jalil to leave, Mariam always stood in the doorway and watched him exit the clearing,
deflated at the thought of the week that stood, like an immense, immovable object, between her and his next visit.
Mariam always held her breath as she watched him go. She held her breath and, in her head, counted seconds.
She pretended that for each second that she didn't breathe, God would grant her another day with Jalil.
At night, Mariam lay in her cot and wondered what his house in Herat was like.
She wondered what it would be like to live with him, to see him every day.
She pictured herself handing him a towel as he shaved, telling him when he nicked himself.
She would brew tea for him. She would sew on his missing buttons.
They would take walks in Herat together, in the vaulted bazaar where Jalil said you could find anything you wanted.
They would ride in his car, and people would point and say, “There goes Jalil Khan with his daughter.”
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