A House Without Windows by Nadia Hashimi

hairbrushes, tins full of bobby pins, and tubes of lipstick. A can of hair spray sat atop the counter. One freshly coiffed prisoner sat in the chair, twisting her neck and torso to get a look at the back of her head. Two other women, rust-colored fingertips stained with henna, stood around her, one of them applying rouge to her cheekbones as she stared into a mirror the size of her palm. They didn’t bother to look up as Zeba passed by.
    â€œLike they’re going to a wedding,” Asma muttered, her eyes unlined and her cheeks unrouged. “Boredom is a crime waiting to happen.”
    Asma took her to the end of the hallway, at the blue door Zeba had come to recognize by the dent where an angry foot had left its mark.
    â€œZeba, you’re back!”
    â€œI thought maybe they’d set you free. You were gone a long time.”
    Zeba felt herself grow suddenly tired at the sound of her roommates’ voices. One thing about this cramped prison with its wide hallways and small rooms—it was nearly impossible to be alone.
    â€œBe nice,” Asma chided with one eyebrow raised. “No need to start trouble, right, Latifa?” She scanned the room quickly before her eyes lit on Latifa for effect.
    Latifa puffed her cheeks and exhaled in frustration.
    â€œThe only difference between us is that uniform, Asma. You know it, too.”
    â€œYeah, that’s exactly right, Latifa. That’s all there is,” Asma agreed sarcastically. She gave Latifa a long, hard look before turning her back and leaving. Zeba figured she could safely assume it had been Latifa’s leaden foot against the door that left the dent.
    Zeba slipped into the room. She ducked her head to sit on her low bunk.
    She was reluctant to engage in conversation with the women, but as Asma had just said, boredom was a crime waiting to happen. Zeba was growing impatient and anxious. She was trying not to imagine spending the rest of her life in this prison but was also having a hard time imagining any alternative. The judge had not yet given her a date for her trial. Her brother was looking for a lawyer. It wouldn’t be easy to find one who would want to defend her, she knew.
    â€œYou haven’t met with the judge yet?” Latifa asked once the sound of Asma’s footsteps faded.
    â€œNo,” Zeba said simply. “Not yet.”
    â€œThey like to keep people a good, long time before they even start the trial. Keep you in here so long that you and everyone you know start to believe you’re guilty for whatever’s written in your file.”
    Latifa sat on a plastic chair facing the television set in the corner of the cell. Mezhgan and Nafisa sat on the floor in front of the bunk bed they shared. They were devout followers of a Turkish soap opera, voices awkwardly dubbed in Dari. Their eyes did not drift from the grainy screen.
    â€œHow long were you here before you got your trial?” Zeba asked.
    Latifa let out a guffaw before answering.
    â€œI was here two months. Simple case but the prosecutor kept filing extensions. I wasn’t even denying that I’d left my family’s home or taken my sister. But I know why. I’m sure the judge was hoping my father would sweeten his tea and arranged for the delays.”
    Two months. Zeba felt a lump in her throat swell. She lowered her head.
    â€œDoesn’t mean it will be the same for you, just means that’s what he did for me. Isn’t that right, Khanum?” Latifa nodded her head in the direction of another guard, a plain woman in her forties with wisps of hair peeking out from under a chestnut head scarf. She’d paused at their doorway, her eyes drawn to the soap opera drama.
    â€œCome on, Latifa. You know I don’t listen to anything you say,” she said smartly.
    Latifa chuckled.
    â€œYou’re some friend, thanks. How’s your daughter, by the way? Is she back to school yet or still having