A young Hindi couple, the wife cradling a boy, the husband dragging a suitcase, passed between them.
Jalil seemed grateful for the interruption. They excused themselves, and he smiled back politely.
“On Thursdays, I sat for hours waiting for you. I worried myself sick that you wouldn't show up.”
“It's a long trip. You should eat something.” He said he could buy her some bread and goat cheese.
I thought about you all the time. I used to pray that you'd live to be a hundred years old.”
I didn't know. I didn't know that you were ashamed of me.
Jalil looked down, and, like an overgrown child, dug at something with the toe of his shoe.
“You were ashamed of me.” “I'll visit you,” he muttered. “I'll come to Kabul and see you. We'll—” “No. No,” she said.
“Don't come. I won't see you. Don't you come. I don't want to hear from you. Ever. Ever.”
He gave her a wounded look. “It ends here for you and me. Say your good byes.”
“Don't leave like this,” he said in a thin voice. “You didn't even have the decency to give me the time to say good bye to Mullah Faizullah.”
She turned and walked around to the side of the bus. She could hear him following her.
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