at the pouches and lines and sags that now marked their once scrubbed, youthful faces.
Tariq opened his mouth and began to say something, but, just as he did,
someone pulled the veil, and Laila missed what it was that he was going to say.
That night, they lay in bed as husband and wife, as the children snored below them on sleeping cots.
Laila remembered the ease with which they would crowd the air between them with words, she and Tariq, when they were younger,
the haywire, brisk flow of their speech, always interrupting each other,
tugging each other's collar to emphasize a point, the quickness to laugh, the eagerness to delight.
So much had happened since those childhood days, so much that needed to be said.
But that first night the enormity of it all stole the words from her.
That night, it was blessing enough to be beside him. It was blessing enough to know that he was here,
to feel the warmth of him next to her, to lie with him, their heads touching, his right hand laced in her left.
In the middle of the night, when Laila woke up thirsty, she found their hands still clamped together,
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