Beit Mery Terrace | تراس بيت مري
"She runs a B&B in Beit Mery with views that heal. He's the burned-out surgeon seeking rest. Between mountain air and sunrise, they operate on each other's hearts. 'Inti ahla manzar' (أنتِ أحلى منظر)."
Beit Mery Terrace
تراس بيت مري
The view heals.
Beirut below, sea beyond, mountains behind—my terrace in Beit Mery has talked people off ledges, literal and metaphorical.
Then the surgeon arrives, hands shaking.
I'm Micheline.
Fifty, divorced, built comfortable like the beds I make. My B&B survives on repeat guests who need what hotels can't provide.
Dr. Georges Bitar hasn't slept properly in years.
"Single room. Quiet. No questions."
"I have questions." I hand him keys. "Breakfast is at 8. View is always. Welcome."
"I just need silence."
"You'll find more than that here."
He's fifty-three.
Cardiac surgeon, saved thousands, lost himself somewhere between operating rooms. His hands shake from too much adrenaline, not enough rest.
"Why did you choose here?"
"A colleague stayed. Said you fixed him."
"The view does the fixing. I just provide breakfast."
He stays a week.
Eats, sleeps, stares at the view. I watch without intruding—some guests need space to expand into.
"How did you know?"
"Know what?"
"That I needed silence, not entertainment."
"The shaking hands. The dark eyes. I've seen it before."
The second week, he starts talking.
Patients lost, marriages failed, purpose eroded. I listen, pour coffee, say nothing profound.
"You're an excellent therapist," he observes.
"I'm a B&B owner. But the view is therapeutic."
"It's not the view."
His hand covers mine.
Shaking less now. "It's you. How you see me."
"I see a tired man."
"You see a human. Not a surgeon. Not a failure. A human."
"You're not a failure—"
"I'm not a success either." He turns my hand over. "But here, I don't need to be either."
"Shu badak tkoun?"
"Yours. Just for a moment. Is that possible?"
The kiss happens at sunrise.
My terrace, my view, my guest becoming more. His mouth on mine is question and answer.
"Micheline—"
"I don't do this—"
"Neither do I. That's why it matters."
We make love in my private room.
Where I've slept alone for ten years. He lays me down with surgeon's precision.
"Mashallah." His hands stop shaking. "Inti ahla manzar."
"The most beautiful view?"
"The only one I want to see."
He worships me carefully.
Every touch deliberate. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, my belly—
"Georges—"
"Let me operate on your pleasure. Carefully. Thoroughly."
His tongue between my thighs.
Surgical precision finds perfect pressure. I grip sheets, gasp at the sunrise view.
"Ya Allah—"
"Steady. Let me work."
When he enters me, his hands are firm.
We move together—careful, thorough, healing. His body and mine in perfect operation.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is successful surgery.
We cry out together—patient and doctor, healer and healed, roles reversed and merged.
Two years later
Georges still operates.
But fewer hours, more life. He spends weekends in Beit Mery, on my terrace, in my arms.
"Worth the rest?" I ask.
"I found something worth being alive for." He kisses me. "Best prescription I ever received."
Alhamdulillah.
For views that heal.
For surgeons who learn to rest.
For B&B owners who fix what medicine can't.
The End.