Constantine Bridges
"Meriem runs a guesthouse near the Sidi M'Cid Bridge. When engineer Omar arrives to study the ancient structures, she teaches him that some bridges connect more than two banks. 'Qentara el qloub' (قنطرة القلوب) - Bridge of hearts."
Constantine clung to its cliffs like a desperate lover. Omar had come to study its bridges but found himself studying the woman instead.
"Marhba fi dar Meriem," she greeted. Welcome to Meriem's house.
He forgot about structural engineering.
She was built like the city itself—all curves and strength, defying gravity. Her guesthouse perched near the famous Sidi M'Cid Bridge.
"Thab el qanatir?" she asked. You like bridges?
"Profession." He couldn't look away from her. "W enti?"
"'Aisht tahtoum toul 'omri." Lived beneath them my whole life.
Days passed in research. Omar measured, photographed, calculated. But evenings belonged to Meriem's terrace, where the gorge yawned beneath them.
"Ma tkhalch?" he asked. Aren't you afraid?
"Men?"
"El 'omq." The depth.
"El 'omq 'ala rasou jamil." Depth has its own beauty. "Lazem bass tethawwel."
She served him traditional doubara soup, thick with beans and spice.
"Hadi special ta' Qsentina," she said. This is Constantine's special.
"Kima enti."
She laughed—rich and deep as the gorge. "Paroles, ya Omar."
He told her about his failed engagement—a woman who wanted him safer, softer, smaller.
"W enti mchiti?" Meriem asked.
"She left."
"Tani." She refilled his bowl. "El qanatir ma yetbedlouche."
"Bridges don't change?"
"El nes el haqiqiyin ma yetbedlouche."
"Enti haqiqiya?" Are you real?
"Shoof." Look. She stood at the terrace edge, arms spread wide. "Hna qbel qanatir. Qbel mdina. Ana hna."
Before bridges. Before the city. I am here.
He kissed her against the backdrop of Constantine's lights, gorge sighing far below.
"Omar," she breathed.
"Warini koulech." Show me everything.
"El mdina?"
"Enti."
She led him inside, through her guesthouse, to her private room overlooking the void.
"Hna," she said. "Bin sama w ard."
Between sky and earth.
"Perfect."
He undressed her slowly, revealing landscape as dramatic as the gorge—valleys and peaks, soft expanses that demanded exploration.
"Ya rabbi," he whispered.
"Kbira," she warned.
"Qsentina zeda kbira." Constantine is also big. "W jamila."
Her bed hung near the window, stars and city lights their only witnesses. Omar kissed a path down her body.
"El 'omq," she gasped as his mouth found her center. "El 'omq, ya Omar..."
He dove deep.
She came with a cry that echoed across the gorge, hands fisted in his hair. Omar drank her pleasure like doubara.
"Tji," she demanded when she recovered. "Tji lina."
He entered her at the edge of the world, her soft body welcoming him home.
"Qentara," she moaned. Bridge. "Rak qentara."
"Binnatna." Between us.
"Bin koulech."
Their rhythm matched the wind through the gorge. Omar drove deep while Constantine sparkled below.
"Aktar," Meriem cried. "Aktar, aktar..."
He gave her everything—thrust after thrust, the bed swaying slightly.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." He quickened. "Qentara el qloub."
Bridge of hearts.
They crested together, pleasure arcing between them like the bridges outside. Omar collapsed into her abundance.
"Ma ysalach," he gasped. It doesn't hold.
"El qentara?"
"El kalb." The heart. "Ysalach."
He stayed a month, then two. His engineering reports became the most detailed ever written.
"Alache barsha details?" colleagues asked.
"Constantine deserves it."
But they saw him looking at Meriem and understood.
"Tebni qentara hna?" she asked one evening. Building a bridge here?
"Deja bnithe." Already built it.
"Win?"
He took her hand, placed it on his heart. "Hna."
The gorge sighed its approval.