Jounieh Cable Car | تلفريك جونيه
"She operates the Téléférique to Harissa, watching pilgrims rise daily. He's the engineer doing maintenance who fears heights. Between sea and shrine, they find elevation. 'Inti tarfi'ini' (أنتِ ترفعيني)."
Jounieh Cable Car
تلفريك جونيه
Ascension is daily.
I lift pilgrims from sea to shrine, Jounieh to Harissa. Nine minutes suspended between earth and heaven.
Then the engineer arrives, terrified of his job.
I'm Marlène.
Forty-nine, cable car operator, body built by station snacks and sedentary work. I watch people rise daily. I stay grounded.
Chadi Hanna is supposed to maintain what I operate.
"You're afraid of heights."
"I'm an engineer, not a bird."
"Then why take this job?"
"Because I need the work." He doesn't look down. "How do you do it?"
"One trip at a time."
He's fifty-two.
Mechanical engineer, lost his firm in the economic collapse. Now he maintains cable cars with trembling hands.
"You can't work like this."
"I have to."
"Then let me help."
I help him.
Riding alongside during inspections. Distracting with conversation. Slowly, his fear becomes manageable.
"Why do you care?"
"Because you're good at your job. The fear is separate."
"Is it?"
"Everything frightening can be survived. I should know."
He asks about my fears.
I tell him—the war, the losses, the reasons I work a job that keeps me suspended.
"We're both running," he realizes.
"We're both rising. Different framing."
"I like your framing better."
The cable car hangs between stations. Just us, the bay below, Harissa above.
"Chadi—"
"I'm going to kiss you. If the car doesn't fall."
"It won't."
The kiss happens mid-air.
Suspended between sea and sky. His mouth on mine is ascent.
"Marlène—"
"Stop shaking."
"I'm not afraid anymore. Inti tarfi'ini."
"I lift you?"
"Higher than any cable car."
We make love at the top station.
After hours, Harissa lit behind us. He lays me on the maintenance platform.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Large. Grounded—"
"Elevating. The word is elevating."
He worships me at altitude.
Fear forgotten. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Chadi—"
"Let me rise to you."
His tongue between my thighs.
I grip railing overlooking the bay. Pleasure like ascent—smooth, breathtaking.
"Ya Allah—"
"That's it. Take me higher."
When he enters me, I feel lifted.
We move together above Jounieh—his body and mine, suspended and safe.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is summit.
We cry out together—bay below, shrine above, pleasure between.
Two years later
Chadi still fears heights.
But he works them. With me. We operate and maintain together.
"Worth the fear?" I ask.
"Fear led me to you." He kisses me as the cable car rises. "Best climb I've ever made."
Alhamdulillah.
For cable cars that lift.
For engineers who overcome.
For operators who elevate.
The End.