Tabarja Boardwalk | رصيف طبرجا
"She runs a sunset café on Tabarja's boardwalk. He's the Lebanese-American screenwriter seeking locations. In golden hour light, they film their own story. 'Inti el scene el aktar haki' (أنتِ السين الأكثر حقيقي)."
Tabarja Boardwalk
رصيف طبرجا
Golden hour lasts longer here.
Something about Tabarja's angle, the Mediterranean's reflection. My café catches that light, and I catch tourists.
Then the screenwriter arrives, camera-ready.
I'm Zeina.
Forty-five, shaped by tasting my own menu, built for comfort not cameras. My café has no stars except the ones above.
Ray Khoury writes movies I've never seen.
"This location is perfect."
"For what?"
"A scene I'm writing. Two strangers meet. Fall in something." He photographs my terrace. "Can I rent it?"
"Depends."
"On?"
"Whether you actually drink something while scouting."
He drinks everything.
My coffee, my wine, my limoncello. Returns daily, notebook open, writing what he won't show me.
"What's the movie about?"
"A man who forgot how to feel. A place that teaches him."
"Sounds autobiographical."
"Dangerously so."
He's forty-nine.
Lebanese parents, LA raised, wrote three films that did well. Then writer's block, divorce, crisis. Now he's here, seeking something.
"Why Lebanon?"
"Because nothing I write in America feels true."
"And here?"
"Everything feels true. Including you."
The admission hangs between us.
He's supposed to be working. I'm supposed to be serving. Neither of us is doing our job.
"Ray—"
"I know. I'm a customer. It's inappropriate."
"When did inappropriate stop writers?"
He laughs—first genuine one I've heard.
"You'd make a better character than anything I've written."
"I'm not a character. I'm real."
"That's why."
The kiss happens at sunset.
Golden hour light on his face, on mine. His mouth tastes like my coffee, my wine—like my café made him.
"Zeina—"
"Don't write this. Just live it."
We make love on the terrace.
After closing, fairy lights our only witnesses. He lays me on cushions I've never tested.
"Mashallah." He breathes against my skin. "Inti el scene el aktar haki."
"The most real scene?"
"The only one that matters."
He worships me cinematically.
Every angle flattering. His mouth on my neck, my breasts, my belly—
"Ray—"
"This is better than any movie."
"Then don't cut."
His tongue between my thighs.
I gasp at the stars his films have never captured. Pleasure building like a third act.
"Ya Allah—"
"Stay with me. Stay here. Don't fade out."
When he enters me, I feel like a premiere.
Opening night, audience of one. We move together with narrative rhythm.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is a perfect ending.
We cry out together—no rewrites needed. Then silence, waves, the kind of peace scripts can't capture.
Two years later
The film releases.
Shot in Tabarja, at my café. I'm in the credits—location manager, consultant, inspiration.
"How's it feel?" he asks at the premiere.
"Like someone finally saw me."
"I always did." He takes my hand. "The film just helped others."
Alhamdulillah.
For cafés that catch light.
For screenwriters who find truth.
For sunsets that inspire.
The End.