She didn't mean to go into Rasheed's room, but the cleaning took her from the living room to the stairs,
and then to the hallway upstairs and to his door, and, the next thing she knew, she was in his room for the first time,
sitting on his bed, feeling like a trespasser. She took in the heavy, green drapes,
the pairs of polished shoes lined up neatly along the wall, the closet door, where the gray paint had chipped and showed the wood beneath.
She spotted a pack of cigarettes atop the dresser beside his bed. She put one between her lips
and stood before the small oval mirror on the wall. She puffed air into the mirror and made ash-tapping motions.
She put it back. She could never manage the seamless grace with which Kabuli women smoked. On her, it looked coarse, ridiculous.
Guiltily, she slid open the top drawer of his dresser. She saw the gun first.
It was black, with a wooden grip and a short muzzle. Mariam made sure to memorize which way it was facing before she picked it up.
She turned it over in her hands. It was much heavier than it looked. The grip felt smooth in her hand, and the muzzle was cold.
It was disquieting to her that Rasheed owned something whose sole purpose was to kill another person.
But surely he kept it for their safety. Her safety. Beneath the gun were several magazines with curling corners.
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