Maameltein Night Swim | سباحة ليل المعاملتين
"She manages a beach resort in Maameltein, working nights when tourists sleep. He's the insomniac guest who joins her midnight swims. In dark water, they find what daylight hid. 'Inti el bahr bi el layl' (أنتِ البحر بالليل)."
Maameltein Night Swim
سباحة ليل المعاملتين
The Mediterranean at midnight belongs to no one.
Tourists sleep, staff goes home. I have these waters to myself—the only peace in a job that's all performance.
Then he appears, unable to sleep.
I'm Sylvana.
Forty-six, resort manager, built for hospitality but craving solitude. My curves fill a swimsuit no guest ever sees.
Philippe Hajj hasn't slept properly in months.
"The pool is closed."
"I'm not here for the pool." He gestures at the sea. "May I?"
"It's dangerous at night."
"Everything's dangerous. At least this is beautiful."
He's fifty.
Lebanese expat from Montreal, returned to settle his father's estate. The insomnia started when he opened the will.
"What keeps you up?"
"Choices I didn't know I had to make."
"Sell everything. Go back."
"I don't know if I want to."
He swims with me.
Night after night, parallel strokes in dark water. We don't talk—just move.
"Why do you do this?" he finally asks.
"Because during the day, I belong to everyone. At night, I belong to myself."
"What about now?"
"Now you're intruding."
"I know. I'm sorry." He floats beside me, stargazing. "It's the first time I've felt peaceful in months."
"The sea does that."
"It's not just the sea."
The kiss happens mid-water.
Both of us treading, mouths meeting, salt between us. His hands find my waist underwater.
"Sylvana—"
"Don't tell anyone—"
"Never."
We make love on the empty beach.
Reserved for VIPs who never use it at night. He lays me on a lounge chair, still dripping.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "Inti—"
"Large. Wet. Unprofessional—"
"Inti el bahr bi el layl." You're the sea at night.
He worships me darkly.
No lights, just touch. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Philippe—"
"I've wanted this since the first swim."
"So have I."
His tongue between my thighs.
Waves crashing nearby, stars above. I grip the lounge chair, crying out at the sea.
"Ya Allah—"
"Let the Mediterranean hear."
When he enters me, I feel depth.
We move together with tide rhythm—in and out, build and release. His body over mine.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is waves crashing.
We cry out together—sound swallowed by the sea. Then silence, breathing, water.
One year later
Philippe doesn't go back to Montreal.
He kept the estate, stays in Lebanon. We still swim at midnight—together now.
"Worth the insomnia?" I ask.
"I found what I was looking for in the dark." He pulls me into the waves. "You."
Alhamdulillah.
For seas that hold secrets.
For insomniacs who swim.
For managers who share midnight.
The End.