They ambled along the crowded boardwalk until Layla suggested they try the beach. She clutched her dress each time a wave rolled in. Little Hanif trailed behind them, tossing stones into the waves. A large wave rolled in. Layla’s feet sank into the sand, toppling her.

“Careful!” Mansoor reached down and pulled her up from her knees, but her dress was soaked, her makeup ruined.

“Let’s go back,” Mansoor offered.

“Why? Just give me your jacket.”

He slipped off his jacket and placed it around her shoulders.

From her shell-shaped purse, she removed a compact mirror and some tissue. She snapped open the mirror and dabbed her eyes to remove the dripping lines of mascara. She reapplied her lipstick and adjusted a few bobby pins. All of that, right in front of him. Most girls (and he knew so many) would have insisted on going home or else they may have thrown a tantrum. Not Layla. She adjusted calmly to a change in circumstances. No fuss at all. That’s a sign of a grown woman. He wanted to kiss her, run his hands over the curves of her body. But he knew he couldn’t. Not with a woman like Layla. There were rules he had to follow and he would. That afternoon, he asked her father for her hand, and to his delight, he agreed. Three months later, on their wedding night, he was finally allowed to touch her.

A tingling sensation radiates through Mansoor’s legs and groin. But the feeling leaves as quickly as it arrives. It has been years since Layla had shared a bed with him or for that matter, even touched him. Since anyone had touched him. He pushes the CD into its socket and presses play. He shifts the car into drive and begins his long journey home.

On McKnight Boulevard, Mansoor glimpses the mountain-shaped minarets of Headquarters Jamatkhana. It’s only now he remembers that it’s the Night of Power. Layla won’t be home, damn it. She’ll be at the prayer hall all night. It’s her duty she tells him—every momin‘s duty—to attend jamatkhana on a daily basis, especially on such an auspicious night. But what about her duty to him as his wife?

He doesn’t want to return to an empty house, especially not tonight. He should have stayed at the store, as he often does, folding open the cot, and watching TV, or else trying to finish the endless paperwork, until he’s certain that Layla is home. Not that Mansoor eats dinner with her—she has always eaten much earlier—or that he and Layla have much to say to each other. But at least when she is home, the house is filled with the everyday sounds of a house—a tap running, dishes being cleared away, the kettle whistling—and these sounds comfort him, especially after a long day at work.

He does not want to celebrate alone. But where can he go? “Should have come to jamatkhana with me,” he can hear Layla say. “It will give you peace of mind.” But does prayer put food on the table? Does it improve your business? Does prayer make your life easy? No, no, and no. There had been a time when he made an effort to go to jamatkhana—to make Layla happy. But he never found any solace at the prayer hall, just a deep sense of loneliness among the rows of men sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor. Nothing bonded him to them. These men had simpler lives, he imagined. They had a God to praise when things went well, a God to blame when they didn’t. Things were always out of their hands, and this kind of thinking he would never accept. Not that he would ever say it out loud. Of course not! Who wants to be ex-communicated? There were some things, his father wisely advised, that must be kept private. First and foremost, religion and politics. Safety in numbers.