The Ramallah Rooftop

The bass pulsed through the warm night air as Dalia climbed the last flight of stairs to her cousin's rooftop. Below, Ramallah sprawled in a tapestry of lights—the modern cafés of Al-Masyoun mixing with the ancient stones of the old city, all of it defiant and alive.

"Habibi!" Her cousin Lama pressed a drink into her hand. "You made it!"

"Wouldn't miss it. Who's all here?"

"The usual crowd. Plus—" Lama's eyes sparkled. "Tariq Mansour. The artist."

Dalia's breath caught. She knew Tariq's work—provocative paintings that had made him famous from Beirut to Berlin. Canvases that explored desire with unflinching honesty. She'd stood before his piece "نار" (Fire) at a gallery in London, her face burning, unable to look away from the intertwined figures.

"He's in the corner," Lama whispered. "Looking very brooding and available."

Dalia found him leaning against the rooftop wall, cigarette glowing between his fingers, watching the party with detached amusement. He was older than she'd expected—mid-forties, with deep-set eyes and the kind of face that had seen things.

"You're staring," he said without looking at her.

"I'm admiring. There's a difference."

Now he turned, one eyebrow rising. "And what are you admiring?"

"Your work. I saw 'Fire' in London."

"Ah." Something shifted in his expression. "And what did you see?"

"Hunger. The kind that doesn't go away."

Tariq's lips curved. He stubbed out his cigarette. "You're not what I expected from Lama's crowd."

"What did you expect?"

"Pretty girls who want to be painted." His eyes traveled down her body slowly, thoroughly. "You're pretty. But you don't want to be painted, do you?"

"I want to understand how you see." Dalia stepped closer, emboldened by the arak warming her blood. "How you capture what people hide."

"Inti btihki kteer." You talk a lot. He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But there are other ways to understand."

His studio occupied the top floor of an old building in Al-Tireh, canvases covering every wall. Dalia's heart raced as Tariq locked the door behind them.

"I don't do this," she said. "Go home with strangers."

"I'm not a stranger. You know my work." He moved to a side table, pouring two glasses of whiskey. "You know what I find beautiful. What I desire." He handed her a glass. "That's more than most people ever share."

The whiskey burned. His gaze burned hotter.

"Show me how you work," Dalia heard herself say.

"I need a subject."

"I'm here."

Tariq's smile was slow, dangerous. "Itla'i tiyabik." Take off your clothes.

She undressed slowly, watching his eyes. He didn't touch himself, didn't move—just observed with that terrifying intensity she'd seen in his paintings.

"Helwa," he murmured. Beautiful. "On the couch. No—not posed. I want you natural. Real."

Dalia lay back, the velvet cool against her heated skin. Tariq began to sketch, his hand moving in swift, sure strokes. The scratch of charcoal was the only sound.

"You're holding back," he said after a while. "Your shoulders are tense. Your jaw is tight."

"I'm nervous."

"Don't be." He set down the sketchpad, approaching slowly. "May I?"

At her nod, his hands found her shoulders, kneading the tension. Dalia's eyes fluttered closed. His touch was professional at first—then it wasn't.

"Byijannin," he breathed, his lips brushing her neck. Maddening. "You're maddening."

What happened next wasn't painting. It was something more primal—his hands replacing charcoal, her body his canvas. Tariq mapped every curve with fingers and tongue, learning her like a new medium.

"Tell me what you want," he demanded, his mouth hot against her stomach.

"Inta." You. "Baddi iyak." I want you.

He shed his clothes with an artist's efficiency, revealing a body lean and marked with faded scars. Dalia pulled him down, desperate now, her nails raking his back.

When he entered her, she cried out—not in pain, but revelation. This was what his paintings captured: the moment when control shattered, when two people stopped being separate and became a single burning thing.

They moved together with increasing urgency, Tariq whispering Arabic endearments—ya hayati, ya omri, ya rouhi—until Dalia couldn't tell where she ended and he began.

Her climax rolled through her like a wave, pulling him under with her. Tariq groaned her name into her throat, his body shuddering, and in that moment Dalia understood everything his paintings had tried to tell her.

They lay tangled in the first gray light of dawn, the muezzin's call drifting through the open window.

"I'm going to paint you," Tariq said. It wasn't a question.

"I thought you already did."

His laugh was warm against her hair. "That was study. Now I know you." His hand traced idle patterns on her hip. "Will you come back tonight?"

Dalia thought of her job, her family's expectations, the neat life she'd built from other people's blueprints. Then she looked at Tariq's eyes—still hungry, still burning—and knew she'd already made her choice.

"Na'am," she said. Yes. "Tonight, and tomorrow, and—"

He silenced her with a kiss that tasted of whiskey and promise. Outside, Ramallah was waking up, ready to pretend another day was ordinary. But Dalia knew better.

Nothing would be ordinary ever again.