The Watermelon Season
"Every summer, the watermelons in Jenin turn red and sweet—and every summer, farmer Khaled waits for Dina to return from the city."
The Watermelon Season
The watermelon fields stretched green and heavy, the fruit ripening toward sweetness. Khaled checked the largest one—not ready yet—and looked toward the road.
She always came when the melons were sweet.
Dina arrived three days later, her car packed with city stress and longing.
"Still waiting?" she asked, finding him in the same spot.
"Still coming back?"
"Someone has to taste your melons."
"They're not ready."
"Neither am I." She smiled. "But I'm here anyway."
This was their rhythm—six summers now. She'd come, they'd fall into something neither could define, and when the melons finished, she'd leave.
"Why don't you stay?" Khaled asked one evening.
"Why don't you come to Ramallah?"
"The melons need me."
"And I don't?"
"You have everything you need there." His voice was careful. "I'm just a summer thing."
"You're more than that."
"Am I?"
She showed him in the field that night, among the melons, under stars that didn't care about seasons.
"Ya Allah," Khaled groaned. "Dina—"
"I love you." The words came fierce. "I've loved you for six summers. I'm tired of pretending it's casual."
He stilled inside her. "You love me?"
"I love you. And I'm staying. Past melon season. Past everything."
"Your job—"
"Can be done remotely. Or I'll find something new." She cupped his face. "I'm tired of leaving, Khaled. Aren't you tired of waiting?"
"Na'am," he said, moving inside her again. "Tired of watching you go. Tired of counting days. Tired of everything except this."
They came together under melon-scented air, promises mingling with pleasure.
Afterward, Khaled cut the biggest watermelon—finally ripe—and fed her slices in the moonlight.
"Sweet?" he asked.
"Perfect." She kissed his juice-wet lips. "Like staying."
"You're really staying?"
"I'm really staying." She laughed. "But I'm building a proper office. Your barn internet is terrible."
"Deal."
The melons ripened on around them, and for the first time in six years, neither counted days until goodbye.
Some seasons, it turned out, didn't have to end.