In the mornings, Laila follows Tariq from room to room.
Keys jingle from a ring clipped to his waist and a spray bottle of window cleaner dangles from the belt loops of his jeans.
Laila brings a pail filled with rags, disinfectant, a toilet brush, and spray wax for the dressers.
Aziza tags along, a mop in one hand, the bean stuffed doll Mariam had made for her in the other.
Zalmai trails them reluctantly, sulkily, always a few steps behind. Laila vacuums, makes the bed, and dusts.
Tariq washes the bathroom sink and tub, scrubs the toilet and mops the linoleum floor.
He stocks the shelves with clean towels, miniature shampoo bottles, and bars of almond scented soap.
Aziza has laid claim to the task of spraying and wiping the windows. The doll is never far from where she works.
Laila told Aziza about Tariq a few days after the nikka.
It is strange, Laila thinks, almost unsettling, the thing between Aziza and Tariq.
Already, Aziza is finishing his sentences and he hers. She hands him things before he asks for them.
Private smiles shoot between them across the dinner table as if they are not strangers at all but companions reunited after a lengthy separation.
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