Tipaza Time
"Yamina sells fresh sardines at Tipaza's beach. When philosopher Alain arrives reading Camus where Camus wrote, she shows him that absurdity tastes better with fish. 'El samak ma yet'falsef' (السمك ما يتفلسف) - Fish don't philosophize."
Tipaza's beach had inspired absurdism. Yamina fried sardines on it.
"Camus wrote here," Alain announced.
"Camus ma kelch el samak ta'i." Camus didn't eat my fish.
"What?"
"Tji tkol."
Her grill smoked on sand Camus had walked—philosophy meeting lunch.
"The Myth of Sisyphus—"
"El samak ma yet'falsefch."
"Fish don't philosophize?"
"Yelzem yetklou."
She was substantial—sand-weathered, salt-seasoned, beautifully unconcerned with meaning.
"You've read Camus?"
"Camus jah yekol."
"Camus came to eat?"
"Koul wahed yji yekol."
Days on the beach taught him. Alain realized philosophy without lunch was just hunger.
"The absurd is—"
"El absurd yek yekol w yeskot."
"The absurd should eat and be quiet?"
"Exactement."
"But meaning—"
"El samak el ma'na ta'ou. El bahr el ma'na ta'ou. El akl el ma'na ta'ou."
Fish has its meaning. Sea has its meaning. Food has its meaning.
Night brought different philosophy—stars Camus had seen, waves Camus had heard, woman Camus had missed.
"Enti Sisyphe?"
"La. Ana Yamina." I'm Yamina. "Nefri el samak. El hjar ma ydirlich."
"Yamina..."
"El samak qalli."
"Fish told you?"
"Yqoul stop thinking. Eat."
She kissed him tasting of sardines.
"Hada..."
"El absurd."
She undressed on philosophy's beach, her curves meaning.
"Mon Dieu," he breathed.
"El samak," she said. "Ana samak."
He consumed her like eating after fasting—desperate, grateful, real.
"Alain," she moaned.
"Hna." He found her flavor. "El ta'am."
She fed beneath him, pleasure physical.
"Dkhol," she gasped. "Koul."
He ate, and understood what Camus had circled around.
"El samak ma yet'falsefch," she cried.
"Sah."
Their rhythm was appetite—hungry, feeding, satisfied, hungry again.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." He ate into her. "El samak ma yet'falsefch."
They finished together, pleasure simple. Alain held her through digestion.
"El philosophy?" she asked.
"Less words."
"Aktar samak?"
"Aktar hayat."
His book reinterpreted Camus—the body over the mind, lunch over lecture.
"El thesis?" academics asked.
"El samak ma yet'falsefch."
Now he grills beside her, learning what books miss.
"El philosopher w el sayyada," they say.
"El samak jab'na," Yamina smiles.
"El samak ykhallina," Alain adds.
Some meaning just needs salt.