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“You need more rain than sun. Want to see wild animals? You don’t need to travel across the world, Indonesia has anything you’d like to see.”
It was Gina’s forth night in my house when she said those words and she was trying to convince me as much as she knows about me.

She heard all the praises about the city I am living in and she could not resist coming here, into a very new adventure and even to be an understudy of this German girl’s ‘Antalya’ adventure made me feel so much different than usual. It was just like the storks brought her to me.

Gina has been to thirty-four different countries, and for thirty-fifth one, she wanted me to accompany her. Three weeks ago, she spent her twenty-ninth birthday under an old tree in Baluran National Park, embracing deer.
“I saw leopards’ horrifying silhouettes on just a little bit west of where I was camping but I wasn’t afraid.”

To know Gina, four days were never enough. Still I could spot her lies from the shouting in her eyes. She was much more attractive and seemed more innocent when she said I wasn’t afraid.

She had a magnificent body and an enchanting display. She seemed much weaker than she actually is and she was proving that she was very strong at the end of day. She had an indistinct freckle army on her pretty face that gave her a childish look but still she was disclaiming her fear.

I wanted to say, you are as liar as you are beautiful, but to think that these poisonous words could provoke her to leave, I gave up on my wish.
She was listening and making me listen the same melody before she sleeps. She was not sleeping actually, just dragging me to the emptiness of the blue.

She was like a typewriter, messy and hard to understand. But when you write it with the right moves, Gina was the best word of all the words.
At the end of every night she would knock and gently open the door to enter my room. She would tidy up the papers that I have messed up with pen stains that are scattered everywhere and shut the table lamp that I so called ‘forgot to shut’. Before she left my room, with her moist lips she would taste my sleepy lips.

Every morning, the richness of the breakfast was by curtesy of Gina. She made the most delicious crepes and, in every breakfast, she was bringing out her camera and telling the stories of the photographs she framed as she was sipping her tea. Every photograph told something to its photographer, as she said. She sometimes forgot that I was even there and started talking to them. She was going where the photograph was born, rule over the memory and coming back to the table.

I was thinking; in her next stop, in a breakfast table, will she be looking at the photos she has taken here, while she was with me and be with m e with her thoughts? Will she be ruling over me?

She stayed with me for a month. She was confused, she was in love, I was in love. I was picking up her fallen blonde hair in every corner on my house. It was just like picking up the leaves that could not hold on to its tree because of the gruff wind of autumn. Sadness? If I need to write it with capitals, I will. In passed six years, where she roosted longest was near me, my house. It was a month with rest, with calmness, with Mediterranean breeze, with photograph stories.

Gina left a man with a heart that was knotted to his brain behind. A man that his eyes told poems with a glance. Her last words before she left were: “I will not let you forget me Alp. You’ll read the stories of everywhere I go in the photographs I take. I’ll write you Alp. Be happy. Be in my heart.”


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