88

— H O O R —

. . .

“What are reading?” He asks in a low and soft voice.

My attention is dragged by him. However, the peace between us is so pleasant and lovely that I do not grumble in annoyance or anything else.

I just look at Zahir who sits beside me. On his knees, he is still praying under his breath. His gaze is in his front and closed, while his hands are joined. His head bows in respect.

I glance down at the Holy Book in my lap and go through the lines that come into my view for the first time after I remove my gaze from my husband’s handsome appearance.

“Reading John, chapter 6,” I answer him in the same quiet tone, soon adding the verse on which I let it go, “At this, the Jews began to grumble about him because he said, “I am the bread that comes down from heaven.””

Zahir sighs, praying, “Lord, you said you’re the bread of life. Without you, there is no life. Without you, we are dead. You are the bread that comes down from heaven. You give life. With you, there is life and