The Jasmine Seller
"Every evening, Umm Khalil sells jasmine garlands at Damascus Gate—until businessman Fadi stops to buy, and finds her scent intoxicating in more ways than one."
The Jasmine Seller
Damascus Gate thronged with evening crowds, but Umm Khalil's spot was always the same—beside the ancient stairs, her jasmine strung into garlands that perfumed the night.
"How much?"
She looked up at the buyer—expensive suit, tired eyes, the look of a man who'd forgotten how to smell flowers.
"Ten shekels. But they're worth more."
"Why?"
"Because I grew them myself. On a balcony the size of your briefcase." She smiled. "Most sellers buy from farms. Mine have Jerusalem in their roots."
He came back every evening. At first Umm Khalil thought he was courting someone—what man buys jasmine except for a woman? But he never mentioned anyone, just stood there inhaling, asking questions about cultivation and scent.
"Why jasmine?" she finally asked.
"My mother grew it. Before we lost the house." Fadi's voice was distant. "I haven't smelled it properly in forty years."
"Then take this one free." She pressed a garland into his hands. "In memory of her."
"I can't—"
"You can. Some things shouldn't be bought."
The conversations lengthened. Fadi learned about her widowhood, her children grown and scattered, the balcony garden that kept her company.
"Why don't you move in with your daughter?" he asked.
"And leave my jasmine? Impossible." Her eyes sparkled. "Besides, she has her life. I have mine."
"Don't you get lonely?"
"Less so lately."
The admission hung between them, fragrant and terrifying.
"Have dinner with me," Fadi said suddenly. "Please. I want to talk somewhere that doesn't smell of diesel."
"I'm sixty-three."
"I'm fifty-eight. We're both old enough to stop caring about 'should.'"
Dinner became dinners. They discovered shared tastes—Palestinian poetry, Turkish coffee, the particular nostalgia of exiles in their own city.
"I think about you," Fadi admitted one evening, her jasmine in his lapel. "All the time. It's inconvenient."
"Thinking often is."
"I want to do more than think." His hand found hers. "Is that wrong?"
"At our age?" Umm Khalil laughed softly. "Nothing's wrong anymore."
They made love in her small apartment, jasmine blooming on the balcony, their scent drifting through open windows.
Fadi touched her with reverent wonder—her silver hair spread across pillows, her body soft and generous, her eyes holding decades of wisdom.
"Helwa," he breathed. "Ya Allah, you're helwa."
"I'm old."
"You're perfect." He kissed the curve of her hip. "I should have found you forty years ago."
"You found me now. That's what matters."
When he entered her, they both gasped—the surprise of bodies remembering pleasure, the sweetness of connection they'd thought lost.
"Don't stop," she whispered. "Please—Fadi—"
He didn't. They moved together slowly, savoring, building to a climax that felt like coming home.
"Marry me," he said afterward, jasmine perfuming their tangled sheets.
"We've known each other three months."
"At our age, that's long enough." His smile was tender. "I've spent decades building a business. I want to spend whatever's left building a life. With you."
"What about your family? My children?"
"Can learn to share us. Or not. Either way, I'm asking."
Umm Khalil looked at this impossible man—lonely, hopeful, offering everything.
"Na'am," she said. "But the jasmine stays on the balcony."
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
Outside, Damascus Gate hummed with evening life, and the jasmine bloomed—patient, fragrant, blessing what had finally grown.