The Tunisian Olive Oil

زيت الزيتون التونسي

Our olive trees are older than Islam.

A thousand years of oil, pressed from the same groves. The best in Tunisia.

James wants it all.

I'm Leila.

Forty-four, running the family estate since my husband died. Three hundred hectares of ancient groves.

James represents a luxury brand.

He's fifty.

American, procurement for high-end gourmet products. He's tasted our oil and wants exclusive distribution.

"Name your price."

"It's not about price."

"Everything is about price."

"Not heritage."

"I'm offering to make you very wealthy."

"I'm already wealthy. In ways you can't buy."

"Then what do you want?"

"Respect. Understanding. Something you haven't shown yet."

He stays.

Learns about the harvest, the pressing, the centuries of knowledge. His impatience softens.

"You really love these trees," he observes.

"These trees raised my children's children's children. They're family."

"Why don't you want to expand? Go global?"

"Because global means compromise. And I don't compromise the oil."

"That's..." He pauses. "That's the most principled thing I've ever heard."

"Principles are what's left when business fails."

"My wife left because I had no principles. Just deals."

We're in the grove at sunset. The trees golden, the air heavy with harvest.

"Then learn some."

"From you?"

"From these." I touch a trunk. "They've seen everything. They keep growing anyway."

The first kiss tastes like olives.

We're pressing the first batch of the season. His hands are oily, mine are experienced.

"I shouldn't mix business—"

"This isn't business anymore."

"What is it?"

"Something I didn't expect."

"Neither did I."

He helps with the harvest.

Bruised and exhausted and more alive than he's been in years.

"Beautiful," he says one night.

"The oil?"

"You."

We make love in the grove.

Ancient trees witnessing modern passion. The oil on our skin, the earth beneath.

"Ya Rabbi—James—"

"Right there?"

"Aiwa—always—"

Two years later

He moved to Tunisia.

We distribute the oil together—small batches, high quality. He learned principles. I learned partnership.

"Happy?" he asks.

"Fruitful."

"That's an olive joke."

"It's a truth."

Alhamdulillah.

For trees that endure.

For buyers who learn.

For oil that anoints love.

The End.