Metn Mountain Road | طريق جبل المتن
"She drives the mountain bus route through the Metn, same roads for thirty years. He's the elderly passenger who boards daily to see his wife's grave. Between hairpin turns, they find steady ground. 'Inti el tariq el amin' (أنتِ الطريق الآمين)."
Metn Mountain Road
طريق جبل المتن
Some roads know you.
I've driven the Metn mountain route for thirty years. Every curve, every drop, every passenger.
He's boarded daily for three years. Always the same stop.
I'm Georgette.
Fifty-four, bus driver, body built for sitting. My hands know these roads; my eyes watch the mirrors.
Abu Fadi visits his wife's grave every day.
"You're very faithful."
"She was very faithful to me." He always sits behind me. "Forty years of marriage."
"You must miss her."
"I talk to her daily. The bus ride is preparation."
He's sixty-five.
Retired tailor, widower, living with grief the way some people live with furniture—used to it, but noticing.
"Why don't you drive yourself?"
"Because the bus gives me time. And company."
"I'm not much company. I'm driving."
"Your silence is the right kind."
We develop ritual.
His stop, his seat, small conversations at traffic lights. I look forward to 8 AM more than I should.
"You look tired," he says one morning.
"My husband left years ago. The house feels large."
"Large houses can feel small with the right person."
The implication settles over months.
Neither of us is young. Neither of us expected this. But something builds with each ride.
"Georgette—"
"I'm driving, Abu Fadi."
"I know. But I've been meaning to say—inti el tariq el amin."
"The safe road?"
"The only road I want to travel."
The kiss happens at his stop.
Bus empty, cemetery visible. His mouth on mine is gentle, certain.
"Is this dishonoring her?" I ask.
"She'd want me happy. This is happy."
We make love at my house.
The one that felt too large. He fills it differently—with presence, not noise.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Old. Wide. A bus driver—"
"Beautiful. Still beautiful."
He worships me with the patience of grief.
Every touch deliberate. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Abu Fadi—"
"Let me remember how to live."
His mouth between my thighs.
I grip sheets, crying out. Pleasure like mountain sunrise—gradual, warming.
"Ya Allah—"
"Yes. Welcome back to living."
When he enters me, I feel traveled.
We move together like winding roads—gentle curves, steady progress.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is destination.
We cry out together—arrived, finally, safely. Then we lie in the house that feels right-sized now.
Two years later
He still visits the grave.
But now I drive him on my day off. We go together, then come home. Together.
"Worth the route?" I ask.
"Every hairpin turn." He kisses me. "And every stop between."
Alhamdulillah.
For roads that connect.
For passengers who become partners.
For drivers who find destination.
The End.