Matn Mountain Honey | عسل جبل المتن
"She keeps bees in the Matn mountains, producing Lebanon's finest honey. He's the allergist who needs her product—and finds he's allergic to leaving. 'Inti ahla min ay 'asal' (أنتِ أحلى من أي عسل)."
Matn Mountain Honey
عسل جبل المتن
Bees don't judge.
They work, produce, die with dignity. I've kept them for thirty years in the Matn mountains, and they've never disappointed me.
The doctor, however, disappoints immediately.
I'm Marlene.
Fifty, Orthodox, shaped like a honeypot my grandmother would approve of. My honey wins awards. My temperament does not.
Dr. Elias Frem needs raw honey for his patients' allergies.
"Ma fi delivery."
"But I'm in Beirut—"
"And my bees are here. You want the honey, you come." I hang up.
He comes.
He's fifty-five.
Allergist, AUB-trained, soft hands and softer manner. Completely out of place on my mountain.
"The drive was—"
"Challenging?" I hand him honey. "Taste."
He tastes. His eyes close.
"This is..."
"Worth the drive. Tab'an."
He orders monthly.
Drives up himself each time—three hours from Beirut. I start noticing things: his jokes, his patience, the way he watches my bees.
"You're scared of them."
"I'm allergic."
"And you became an allergist?"
"Know your enemy." He half-smiles. "Also know your cure."
One visit, he stays late.
I offer dinner—simple mountain food, mountain wine. We talk until stars emerge.
"Li shu ma tzawajti?"
"My work." He sighs. "Convenient excuse."
"W really?"
"Fear. Of choosing wrong."
"I chose wrong once."
"What happened?"
"He wanted me smaller. In every way." I pour more wine. "I chose myself instead."
"How did that feel?"
"Like being stung. Then like healing."
He returns the next weekend without an order.
"Ma fi telfonli."
"I didn't come for honey."
"Tab shu baddak?"
"Inti."
The honesty floors me.
Fifty-five years of city diplomacy, and he says what he means. On my mountain. To my face.
"Elias—"
"Tell me I'm wrong. That you haven't noticed. That these visits mean nothing."
I can't. Because they do.
The kiss tastes like honey.
Of course it does—it's everywhere here. His hands frame my face like I'm delicate, which I'm not.
"Careful—"
"Why?"
"I'm not what you're used to."
"Thank God."
We make love in my honey house.
Where I extract and bottle, where generations of sweetness have seeped into wood. He lays me on the workbench.
"Marlene—mashallah—"
"Don't worship. Work."
He works with a doctor's precision.
Finding pressure points, sensitive spots, what makes me gasp. His mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Ya Allah—"
"Inti ahla min ay 'asal."
His tongue between my thighs.
Tasting me like honey—slow, thorough, savoring. I grip the bench, knocking over a jar.
"Elias—please—"
"Patience. Best cures take time."
When he finally enters me, I'm desperate.
He moves slowly, watching my face, adjusting to my responses.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax stings like bees.
Sharp, then spreading warmth. I cry out, clenching around him. He follows, groaning into my shoulder.
We lie sticky and satisfied.
Honey everywhere—including places that will need cleaning.
"Move to Beirut?" he asks.
"Never."
"Then I move here."
"You have patients—"
"They have allergies, not emergencies." He kisses me. "I'll commute."
Three years later
Dr. Frem sees patients three days a week.
The rest, he's here—helping with hives, learning the bees, loving me.
"Worth the sting?" I ask.
"Best allergy I ever developed." He pulls me close. "No cure wanted."
Alhamdulillah.
For bees that produce sweetness.
For doctors who seek cures.
For honey that binds lives together.
The End.