He was half smiling, nodding slowly. Laila didn't remember him saying this before, this word indeed, and this pensive gesture,
the fingers making a tent in his lap, the nodding, it was new too.
Such an adult word, such an adult gesture, and why should it be so startling?
He was an adult now, Tariq, a twenty-five-year-old man with slow movements and a tiredness to his smile.
Tall, bearded, slimmer than in her dreams of him, but with strong-looking hands, workman's hands, with tortuous, full veins.
His face was still lean and handsome but not fair-skinned any longer;
his brow had a weathered look to it, sunburned, like his neck, the brow of a traveler at the end of a long and wearying journey.
His pakol was pushed back on his head, and she could see that he'd started to lose his hair.
The hazel of his eyes was duller than she remembered, paler, or perhaps it was merely the light in the room.
Laila thought of Tariq's mother, her unhurried manners, the clever smiles, the dull purple wig.
And his father, with his squinty gaze, his wry humor.
Earlier, at the door, with a voice full of tears, tripping over her own words,
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