The Rose Water Maker

The roses arrived at dawn—thousands of petals, still dewy, filling Umm Suleiman's courtyard with fragrance strong enough to taste.

"You're the distiller."

She didn't look up from sorting. "And you're the buyer from Beirut. You're early."

"The hotel was terrible." Tariq sat without invitation. "This is extraordinary."

"Of course it is. I've been making rose water for forty years."

He stayed to watch the distillation—copper pots, patient fire, the first drops of oil floating on water.

"It's alchemy," he said.

"It's chemistry." She adjusted the flame. "With love."

"You love it?"

"I love what it creates. The smell in the air when I work. The way people's faces change when they smell it." She met his eyes. "Joy from petals. That's magic enough."

He returned every morning, helping where she'd let him, asking questions that showed understanding.

"Why do you really stay?" she asked after a week.

"Because you're the most extraordinary person I've ever met." He didn't hesitate. "And because your rose water smells like you. I want to understand both."

"I'm old enough to be—"

"My equal. That's all that matters."

They came together surrounded by roses, their scent a blessing.

"Ya Allah," Tariq breathed against her throat. "You smell like heaven."

"I smell like work."

"Same thing." He made love to her with perfumer's attention—savoring every note, every response. "Helwa. You're helwa."

"Show me," she demanded. "All of it."

He showed her—years of loneliness dissolving into connection, roses witnessing what words couldn't capture.

"Stay in Palestine," she said afterward. "Open your business here."

"You want me to?"

"I want someone to share the roses with." She kissed his palm. "And the rest of life."

"Na'am," Tariq agreed. "But I want exclusive rights to your rose water."

"The business or the maker?"

"Both."

She laughed, pulling him close, and around them the roses continued their brief perfection—blooming, distilling, becoming something eternal.

Just like love.