Beirut Balcony Nights | ليالي بلكون بيروت
"Her apartment overlooks Mar Mikhael. He's the neighbor who watches her dance alone at midnight. One power outage changes everything. 'Inti ahla min dayy el amar' (أنتِ أحلى من ضيّ القمر)."
Beirut Balcony Nights
ليالي بلكون بيروت
The electricity cuts at midnight.
Beirut tradition. I light candles and step onto my balcony in Mar Mikhael.
That's when I see him watching.
I'm Layla.
Forty-two, divorced, too much woman for my ex-husband. His words. I prefer "abundant."
Fadi has been my neighbor for three years. We've never spoken beyond "Marhaba."
Tonight he speaks.
"Kifik ya Layla?"
His voice carries across the darkness. Deep. Warm.
"Mniha, hamdilla. W inta?"
"Better now."
The generator doesn't kick in.
Unusual. I should go inside. Instead I stay, and he stays, and the darkness wraps around us like permission.
"Li shu badik trousé?" Why do you dance?
"You've been watching?"
"Kil leylé." Every night.
I should be embarrassed.
My midnight dancing—hair loose, hips free, pretending no one sees. Survival mechanism for a city that breaks your heart daily.
"Btoujeni?" Does it bother you?
"Inti bitoujenni." You bother me. "Bi ahla ma'ana."
I descend my stairs.
He's waiting at his door when I arrive. Candlelight from his apartment spills gold across his features—fifty-something, silver temples, eyes that have seen too much Beirut.
"Fawti."
His apartment smells like Arabic coffee and oud.
"Shu baddik tishrab?"
"Arak." Bold choice for midnight.
He pours two glasses, adds water, watches it cloud. "Kisrit."
"Inta kasartni." You broke me. With your watching.
"Layla..."
"Three years. You could have said something."
"And ruin the only beautiful thing left in this city?" He hands me the glass. "Your dancing saved my life."
His wife died in the blast.
August 4th, 2020. He doesn't need to say which blast. There's only one.
"Ana mit'asfi."
"Don't be sorry. Be here. Halla."
I set down my glass.
Cross the space between us. He doesn't move, just watches me approach like I'm something sacred.
"Baddik trousé ma'é?" Want to dance with me?
"Ma fi musiqa."
"Fi." I take his hands. "Isma'." Listen.
We sway to Beirut's heartbeat.
Car horns and distant music, generators humming, the Mediterranean breathing. His arms wrap around my waist, pulling me close.
"Ya Allah," he murmurs into my hair. "Inti ahla min dayy el amar."
The first kiss tastes like arak and grief.
His hands frame my face like I'm precious. I'm crying—why am I crying?
"Li shu 'am tibki?"
"Li'anno inta ba'dik hon." Because you're still here.
He leads me to his bedroom.
More candles—did he plan this? Did he hope?
"Fadi..."
"Tlat snin." Three years. "Kil leylé bahlamik."
He undresses me slowly.
Each piece of clothing a revelation. I try to cover myself—old instincts—and he stops me.
"La. Baddé shoufik. Killik."
"Ana mish—"
"Inti kamli." You're complete. His hands worship my curves. "Inti kil shi baddé yé."
We fall onto his bed.
Mouths meeting, hands exploring. He kisses down my neck, my collarbone, the soft flesh of my breasts.
"Mashallah," he breathes. "Mashallah, mashallah."
His mouth travels lower.
Over my belly, my hips, the thickness of my thighs. He parts them gently.
"Fadi—"
"Khalini." Let me.
The first touch of his tongue—
"YA ALLAH—"
He takes his time.
Learns me like a song, finds every note that makes me cry out. My hands grip his hair, his shoulders, the sheets.
"Please—baddik—"
"Shu baddik?" What do you want?
"Inta. Jouwayti."
He rises over me.
Enters slowly, watching my face. I've never felt so seen, so held.
"Layla."
"Fadi."
We begin to move.
The rhythm matches our heartbeats.
Deep and slow, then urgent. His weight presses me into the mattress, his hips roll against mine.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
I shatter first.
Crying his name into the dark, body arching, pleasure crashing through me like the Mediterranean against the Corniche.
He follows moments later, groaning "Layla, Layla, Layla" like a prayer.
We lie tangled afterward.
Sweat cooling, hearts slowing. The candles gutter but don't die.
"Khallik." Stay.
"Wayn baddé rouh?" Where would I go?
"Home. Your balcony."
"This is home now." I kiss his chest. "Inta home."
One year later
The electricity still cuts.
But now I dance on his balcony, in his arms. Beirut still breaks hearts—but not ours.
"Bahibbik," he says every night.
"W ana ktir."
Alhamdulillah.
For neighbors who watch.
For darkness that reveals.
For cities that wound and heal simultaneously.
The End.