made for a face that was not pretty but, somehow, not unpleasant to look at either.
In the mirror, Mariam had her first glimpse of Rasheed: the big, square, ruddy face; the hooked nose;
the flushed cheeks that gave the impression of sly cheerfulness; the watery, bloodshot eyes;
the crowded teeth, the front two pushed together like a gabled roof;
the impossibly low hairline, barely two finger widths above the bushy eyebrows; the wall of thick, coarse, salt and pepper hair.
Their gazes met briefly in the glass and slid away. This is the face of my husband, Mariam thought.
They exchanged the thin gold bands that Rasheed fished from his coat pocket.
His nails were yellow brown, like the inside of a rotting apple, and some of the tips were curling, lifting.
Mariam's hands shook when she tried to slip the band onto his finger, and Rasheed had to help her.
Her own band was a little tight, but Rasheed had no trouble forcing it over her knuckles.
“There,” he said. “It's a pretty ring,” one of the wives said. “It's lovely, Mariam.”
All that remains now is the signing of the contract,the mullah said.
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