Mariam signed her name—the meem, the reh, the ya and the meem again—conscious of all the eyes on her hand.
The next time Mariam signed her name to a document, twenty seven years later, a mullah would again be present.
“You are now husband and wife,” the mullah said. “Tabreek. Congratulations.”
Rasheed waited in the multicolored bus. Mariam could not see him from where she stood with Jalil,
by the rear bumper, only the smoke of his cigarette curling up from the open window.
Around them, hands shook and farewells were said. Korans were kissed, passed under.
Barefoot boys bounced between travelers, their faces invisible behind their trays of chewing gum and cigarettes.
Jalil was busy telling her that Kabul was so beautiful, the Moghul emperor Babur had asked that he be buried there.
Next, Mariam knew, he'd go on about Kabul's gardens, and its shops, its trees, and its air,
and, before long, she would be on the bus and he would walk alongside it, waving cheerfully, unscathed, spared.
Mariam could not bring herself to allow it. “I used to worship you,” she said.
Jalil stopped in midsentence. He crossed and uncrossed his arms.
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