And now she longed to touch him again, to prove to herself again that he was really here, that he was not a dream, an apparition.
“Indeed,” he said. “Flamingos.” When the Taliban had found the paintings, Tariq said, they'd taken offense at the birds' long, bare legs.
After they'd tied the cousin's feet and flogged his soles bloody,
they had presented him with a choice: Either destroy the paintings or make the flamingos decent.
So the cousin had picked up his brush and painted trousers on every last bird.
“And there you have it. Islamic flamingos,” Tariq said. Laughter came up, but Laila pushed it back down.
She was ashamed of her yellowing teeth, the missing incisor. Ashamed of her withered looks and swollen lip.
She wished she'd had the chance to wash her face, at least comb her hair.
But he'll have the last laugh, the cousin,” Tariq said.He painted those trousers with watercolor.
When the Taliban are gone, he'll just wash them off.” He smiled.
Laila noticed that he had a missing tooth of his own and looked down at his hands.
“Indeed.” He was wearing a pakol on his head, hiking boots, and a black wool sweater tucked into the waist of khaki pants.
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