His eyes were magnetic; lined with the kohl they used sometimes as an eyeliner. It was said, in other times, that the make up was used to ward off the evil eye, but he wore it too well. In a society like this one, where women were only close in dreams and desires, men adjusted.
The question came soft, fatal, whispered in Dari: “Have you come to kill me?”
“Hao, na, yes, no,” the man shrugged, in Pashto, his curls tucked under his black turban, denoting a direct line in descendance to The Prophet. He waved the Kalashnikov upwards.
“Put on your burka,” he said.
“I have none.”
“In your eyes, I am not even a woman.”
She lifted her robe, revealing her penis, shrunk in fear.
The Taliban warrior sighed. “Why?” he struggled, hoarsely.
“It was my job, I danced, sung, other things.” She glanced downwards. “I will for you,,” she whispered.