She didn’t want him that way. She wanted him to herself for a little while longer. Because before his frenzied outbursts, his screaming rages, there were moments of lucidity. Of beauty and clarity. A few minutes at least during which he shone through, when he turned to her fondly and said, “Remember when I taught you to play tawla? And then you started cheating, you scamp.” Those times—when he knew her, before the fog descended and obstructed his memory—those were worth it. During his good moments, when he called her “ya binti,” she recaptured him. The way he loved her. She recaptured the way
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