Hofuf Heat
"Date farmer Khadija tends the famous palms of Al-Hofuf. When agricultural investor Ahmad visits her family's orchards, the harvest becomes personal. 'Al tamr min eedik ahla' (التمر من إيدك أحلى) - Dates from your hand are sweeter."
Ahmad's Italian shoes sank into irrigated soil. His assistant winced.
"Mashi," he said. Fine. "This is where the magic happens."
Khadija Al-Rashid watched from the palm's shade, unimpressed by the city investor's attempt at humility.
"You're ruining those shoes," she called out.
"They're just shoes."
"They cost more than my monthly harvest."
He actually laughed. "Show me why that should change."
She'd inherited the date palms from her father—five generations of cultivation, centuries of knowledge. Modern agricultural corporations had tried buying her out for years.
"Why now?" she demanded. "Another takeover attempt?"
"Partnership." Ahmad sat on an irrigation pipe, heedless of his tailored thobe. "I want to learn, not acquire."
"Men always say that."
"I'm not most men."
He returned weekly, then daily. Ditched the designer clothes for work robes. Learned to climb palms, to pollinate by hand, to read the fruit's ripeness by touch.
"You're getting better," Khadija admitted.
"High praise from the master." Ahmad wiped sweat from his brow. "Your father would be proud."
"He'd wonder why I'm teaching a city man."
"Why are you?"
She had no good answer.
"Al tamr min eedik ahla," he said one evening, tasting dates she'd hand-selected. Dates from your hand are sweeter.
"It's the same fruit."
"It's different because you chose it." His eyes held hers. "Everything you touch becomes more valuable."
"Flattery won't get you my orchards."
"I don't want your orchards, Khadija." He set down the date. "I want you."
She was forty-eight, divorced, childless by choice. Her body had softened over years of labor—thick arms, generous hips, hands rough from honest work.
"You could have any woman."
"I've had other women." He stepped closer. "I've never met anyone like you."
"I'm not sophisticated—"
"You're real." His hand cupped her cheek. "Do you know how rare that is?"
The first kiss tasted of dates and danger. Ahmad groaned into her mouth, pulling her close.
"I've wanted this for months," he confessed.
"Then stop talking."
They stumbled into the processing shed, surrounded by harvested fruit. Ahmad pressed her against stacked crates, hands exploring curves hidden beneath work robes.
"Mashallah," he breathed. "Inti kanz." You're treasure.
"Ana farmer."
"Ana majnoon an'ik." I'm crazy about you.
He unwrapped her like precious harvest, mouth following hands down her body. When he reached her breasts, heavy from years of gravity, he groaned.
"Perfect." He suckled gently. "Absolutely perfect."
"Ahmad—"
"Khalleeni." Let me.
His mouth traveled lower, tracing her soft belly, spreading her thick thighs. When his tongue found her center, Khadija cried out among the date crates.
"Ahla shi," he murmured against her. The sweetest thing. "Ahla min ay tamr."
"Aktar," she demanded. "Please, aktar!"
He brought her to peak twice before rising, his own need evident.
"Abghaki," he groaned. "Guli aiwa."
"Aiwa," she breathed. "Ya Allah, aiwa."
He filled her surrounded by the harvest she loved, groaning at the sensation.
"Inti harra," he gasped. You're hot. "Zay shams al Hofuf."
"Romantic comparison."
"I'm a businessman." He thrust deeper. "Metaphors are limited."
They moved together among the dates—sweet and urgent, ancient and new. Ahmad gripped her hips, driving them both toward oblivion.
"Ana qareeb," he warned.
"Ma'aya," she commanded. "Sawa."
They crested together, pleasure crashing like irrigation waves. Ahmad held her through the aftermath, both breathing heavily.
"Marry me," he said.
"You're delirious from heat."
"I'm clear for the first time." He kissed her deeply. "I don't want partnership with your orchards. I want partnership with you."
She looked at this city man who'd learned to climb palms and wasn't afraid of honest dirt.
"The orchards stay in my name."
"Of course."
"I don't move to Riyadh."
"I'll commute."
"And if I'm difficult?"
He smiled. "I'm counting on it."
Their wedding was held among the date palms, guests seated on irrigation pipes, reception featuring every variety of fruit the orchards produced.
"Al tamr min eedik ahla," Ahmad repeated in his vows.
"Wa al hubb minak ahla," she answered. And love from you is sweeter.
Some partnerships, they'd learned, grew best when rooted in good soil.