Medina Moonlight
"Salma teaches calligraphy in the holy city. When divorced imam Hamza seeks to commission Quranic art for his mosque, their sessions become sacred in unexpected ways. 'Al hubb ibada' (الحب عبادة) - Love is worship."
The pen moved like prayer—bismillah flowing from Salma's brush in curves older than memory.
"Mashallah."
She looked up. The man in the doorway wore simple white, but carried himself like royalty.
"Imam Hamza," her assistant whispered. "From Al-Nabawi district."
"I've heard your calligraphy speaks to the soul," he said, approaching her workspace. "Wa da'wati laki tammat." And my invitation to you is complete.
"What do you need, Sheikh?"
"Not sheikh." His smile was warm. "Just Hamza. And I need someone to write ayat for my mosque that will make hearts remember."
He returned daily for consultations, discussing verses, styles, colors. Salma learned he was forty-nine, divorced three years, devoted entirely to his community.
"You never remarried?" she asked one evening.
"Al zawja lazim takoon nur." A wife must be light. "I hadn't found that. Until recently."
His eyes held hers, and Salma's heart stuttered.
She was forty-six, widowed young, childless by circumstance. Her art was her devotion, her craft her prayer.
"I'm not suitable for an imam," she said carefully.
"Let me determine that." He moved closer. "Inti tahtajin li?" Do you need me?
The question undid her. "Na'am," she whispered.
Their first kiss was gentle as calligraphy—deliberate strokes, patient curves. Hamza held her face like sacred text.
"Al hubb ibada," he murmured. Love is worship. "Loving you is not sin. It's sunnah."
"Hamza—"
"Itzawwajini." Marry me. "Al layla." Tonight.
They wed quietly, witnesses from the mosque, simple ceremony in sacred city. But the wedding night was anything but simple.
"I've waited so long," Hamza confessed, fumbling with her garments. "Samhini—I'm nervous."
"So am I." She guided his hands. "Sawa." Together.
He undressed her with trembling reverence, each revealed inch drawing soft prayers from his lips.
"Subhan Allah," he breathed at her full figure. "Inti jameel. Inti ni'ma." You're beautiful. You're a blessing.
"Hamza—"
"Let me worship you properly."
His mouth traced verses down her body—bismillah at her throat, alhamdulillah at her breasts, subhanallah across her soft belly.
"Aktar," she begged.
"Sabr, habibti." Patience, my love.
When his mouth found her center, Salma cried out his name like dhikr—remembrance. He worshipped her with tongue and fingers until she shattered, tears streaming down her face.
"Zain?" he asked, concerned. Okay?
"Ahsan shi jarra li." The best thing that ever happened to me.
His smile was sunrise over Medina.
"Biddi feeki," he confessed. "Mumkin?"
"Halal," she reminded him through tears. "Ana maratik." I'm your wife.
"Alhamdulillah." Thank God.
He entered her with prayer on his lips, and Salma felt blessed in ways no artwork had ever achieved. They moved together in sacred rhythm, spiritual and physical merging into one.
"Ana bahebik," he gasped.
"Wa ana bahebik aktar."
When they crested, it was with tears and laughter, joy so intense it bordered on divine. Hamza held her through the aftershocks, stroking her hair.
"You'll write the verses now?" he asked.
"Aiwa." She traced his face. "Ba'ad ma ithna'aini."
"What will you create?"
"Something that shows love like yours. Al hubb al haqiqi." True love.
The calligraphy Salma created for Hamza's mosque became legendary—verses that seemed to pulse with emotion, letters that appeared to embrace each other.
"How do you capture such feeling?" students asked.
"Bil tajriba." Through experience. "Bil hubb."
Years later, visitors to the mosque would pause before her work, hearts stirring for reasons they couldn't name.
And in the house behind the mosque, an imam and his calligrapher would watch moonlight silver the walls.
"Bahebik," he'd whisper.
"Show me," she'd reply.
And he would—with patience and devotion, worship and desire, sacred and profane merging until only love remained.