Only two weeks since he had left$$$ and it was already happening. Time$$$ blunting the edges of those sharp memories. Laila bore down mentally. What had he said? It seemed vital$$$ suddenly$$$ that she know.Laila closed her eyes. Concentrated.With the passing of time$$$ she would slowly tire of this exercise. She would find it increasingly exhausting to conjure up$$$ to dust off$$$ to resuscitate once again what was long dead. There would come a day$$$ in fact$$$ years later$$$ when Laila would no longer bewail his loss. Or not as relentlessly; not nearly. There would come a day when the details of his face would begin to slip from memory's grip$$$ when overhearing a mother on the street call after her child by Tariq's name would no longer cut her adrift. She would not miss him as she did now$$$ when the ache of his absence was her unremitting companion—like the phantom pain of an amputee.Except every once in a long while$$$ when Laila was a grown woman$$$ ironing a shirt or pushing her children on a swing set$$$ something trivial$$$ maybe the warmth of a carpet beneath her feet on a hot day or the curve of a stranger's forehead$$$ would set off a memory of that afternoon together. And it would come rushing back. The spontaneity of it. Their astonishing imprudence...It would flood her$$$ steal her breath.But then it would pass. The moment would pass. Leave her feeling deflated$$$ feeling noting but a vague restlessness.