Tahera now watches Seema’s every interaction with Fiaz with suspicion. Throughout the morning, at the Golden Gate Bridge, and later on the crooked Lombard Street and at Coit Tower, every time their bodies draw close, she takes note. She edges closer to eavesdrop; she insinuates herself into their conversations under cover of interest; she projects innocent curiosity even as she asks questions: How did they meet? How do they like working together? Do they see each other often outside work?

Their replies are wary, evasive, giving her little to go on. There’s no denying that some (deep) connection exists between them. This much is evident in the easy familiarity that marks their intercourse, the conspiring smiles Seema gives Fiaz, the readiness with which he cooperates. There’s a tenderness too in his concern for Seema; he helps her into the car and bends to whisper something into her ear, and Tahera burns. She needn’t have abandoned her family. Seema has already found herself a willing servant, if not a new suitor.

It’s close to 1:00 p.m., and Fiaz and Seema discuss lunch at one of the Pakistani places around Union Square. It’ll be halal, Seema tells Tahera.

“But it’s time for my zuhr namaz.”

Fiaz offers to drive her to a mosque.

“If we’re going to Union Square, I can pray there. I’ve prayed before in parking lots and lobbies. I just need a place to spread my janamaz.” She’s brought it with her, for just such an eventuality. The passersby in Union Square won’t faze her; in fact, today she’ll relish the challenge. She feels combative. She’s ready with an answer if anyone in the car chooses to question the advisability of praying in public: people pray on the roads in Mecca all the time, both men and women!

Nobody speaks until they pull to a stop in front of a building. “I bring my mother here,” Fiaz says. “The mosque’s on the second floor.”

The neighborhood looks sketchy. There’s litter on the pavements, and shabby loiterers lean against the garbage can. If it weren’t for the inscription across the building’s nondescript entrance, Tahera wouldn’t believe it housed a mosque. A small prayer space, likely, in this large commercial building, nothing like their mosque in Irvine, stand-alone and impressive, with its green dome and tall decorative arches.

She clambers out from her side, chagrined. “I told you not to bother. What will you all do now?”

“We’ll wait here for you, if you won’t be long,” Fiaz says. “Or I can drop your mother and Seema off at Union Square and return to pick you up.”

“Don’t wait for me. If they’re hungry, they should go ahead and eat.” She immediately turns around and heads for the entrance, not waiting to see what they do.