Her eyes fixed on the mirror, she said: “If you asked me not to come again, I wouldn’t come.”

“In that case, don’t ever come again!”

She watched as the face in the mirror registered first surprise and then anguish. That face in the mirror—how it frightened her.

She turned her head. Eyes closed.

A second. Two seconds. A minute, maybe more. Eyes still closed, she sat in silence.

Muhsin still reclining on the sofa, watching.

Watching this woman who was soon to wrap her slender arms around her husband.

Celile felt something cool on the tips of her long eyelashes. Something cool on her cheeks.

She had to keep her eyes closed and her head tipped back, so that her tears would flow back into her eyes.

Could it be true? Had Muhsin really uttered those words?

Such a thing to say. Such a thing!

Had she been accustomed to telling others of her feelings, she would have run across the room to him, thrown herself on her knees and said, “Don’t you ever, ever, speak to me like that again. If you told me never to come again, it would kill me.” She would have said this with no fear of wounding her pride.

For her, Muhsin was not about pride. For her, Muhsin was desire. For her, Muhsin was life itself.