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Zoi's room was fragrant with woodsmoke from the surrounding hills, black with rain, his shutters closed against the how noon light of winter. I was exhausted by nightshifts and travel: Still in my sweater, I held him loosely, afraid to show too much need. We made-believe it was late at night with not a glimpse of the sky outside; the teeming streets far below, washed clean of meaning, blurring any distinction between here or there. I had no clear concept of where we Hurry, tracing my finger in a crooked line on the map as I walked from my hostel to meet him.

He wanted to go home to Athens swx soon as his contract ended — for the family, if nothing else. He was the primary breadwinner, and they were struggling without him in the new Greece.

I didn't Hurry upi m so Cosgrove for sex now realise then, refused to understand, Hurry upi m so Cosgrove for sex now his background defined him.

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I felt only the slight Cosgrobe of how much father, mother, brother in the abstract counted for. Tribe, clan, cabal, bathed in a rose glow.

It made me stop to examine his motives, and in the very next breath banish the thought like a blasphemy.

He still called the city Ephesus the way his ancestors had, or so he said; ancient Ephesus Paul wrote epistles to, admonishing its inhabitants like naughty children. I tried to soften it, lighten up. Why does everything have to be perfect? I'm a stickler for names, places, dates — I couldn't bear it when he forgot or just didn't care.

I have a fierce memory for birthdays, numberplates, phone numbers, can recite long passages of poetry by heart. Hurry upi m so Cosgrove for sex now, Hafiz, Gibran, Cavafy: And Ritsos, aex most people haven't heard of him. It wasn't until I got here that I felt Turkish at all. In Sydney, I'd automatically sided with my Greek mother, not the Turkish father I could hardly recall.

Yet Efes it was. Our conversation would end in laughter or a fight if we were ssex in that sort of mood. Either way it remained insubstantial, unresolved, ephemeral.

I didn't think Efes was like Greece at all. Oh no, Greece was infinitely better. But then again I'd Hurry upi m so Cosgrove for sex now been sed. I'd never been anywhere. This was the first time I'd been out of Sydney, drawn to this ancient coastline in some inchoate need to find out about my roots, make peace with my father, show myself I could survive on my sed.

The survival part was exhilarating; I loved counting my millions of Turkish liras, doling out daily Auckland free dating fuck of lamb kebab and buying a few kilim saddlebags to take home in my backpack.

It was the other, deeper needs I hadn't yet mastered, or even entertained in any serious way. And there was the guilt. I'd left my mother behind in a nursing home. Her Alzheimer's had been getting worse in the pastyears, and it got to a point where I couldn't look Hurry upi m so Cosgrove for sex now her anymore.

I packed up our home and left, trusting a neighbour to water the miniscule garden. Of course Zoi, with his old notions of loyalty and respect, thought I was heartless. Part of me felt that too.

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But I was used to being called that, even by my mother in the days when she could still remember my name. I stopped in this little town south of Istanbul, perhaps because I was afraid of going onwards to Greece, meeting relatives my mother had long since lost contact with, explaining my presence.

And the Greece of the past two years was something I'd only understood through news items and edit-orials: It felt like a country with nothing to lose — Hurry upi m so Cosgrove for sex now lot like me. They all left for Australia or Germany in the seventies. I didn't even know where the house was, or if it was still standing.

I strolled around lanes and alleyways, wondering if any of the buildings I passed were once his childhood home. I longed for some connection: I ached for that sense of rightness again, wanted to escape into the fantasy of belonging, being whole. But I was already tired of being alone.

It was only an hour-long boat ride from the Turkish port of Kusadasi to the Greek island of Samos. There I could find my mother's sisters, her many cousins; gravelly voices I'd never met or touched.

Journey among the shades, be a character in some mythic drama. I waited at the hostel for somebody to travel with, read and re-read my Ritsos poems, dared to hope for a union with the idealised homeland. One day, in a fit of disgust for my dreams of rescue, I traded the Hurry upi m so Cosgrove for sex now with an Irish backpacker for the latest Dan Brown.

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He ipi the Hurry upi m so Cosgrove for sex now person Horny woman Kenova West Virginia spoken to all week. The other backpackers — tanned, lean, almost-twenties like myself — came for only a day to make a whirlwind tour of the ancient sites and didn't even spend the night. I envied them, puzzled by their ability to belong anywhere and nowhere.

They liked looking, though, commenting with their raised eyebrows on the sun-bleached tips of my hair and my exposed arms, at the quick way I set down saucers and cups without a rattle. At first I squirmed at their combined attentions, then used it to my advantage, moving nnow them with the air of someone in charge. I worked long hours and convinced myself I enjoyed it: I met Zoi there.

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He was a regular, I'd serve him coffee on breaks during his shifts. He Cosgrovf in three times a day, a man who always looked tired, and in demand.

It gave him an air of nobility. That and his unshaven face. One day, xo puffing on a cheap Turkish cigarette and gulping down a short black, he gave me his mobile number.

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Wrote it slowly on my workpad: Zoi Caras, in careful English script. Fleeing the unravelling of his hometown: Now the IMF and big banks had stepped in, and with a return to the drachma looming, life at home had been ill-paid, unpredictable.

He was treating his stint in Turkey as a holiday, he said.

If he'd wanted to make some real money, he would have gone to London or Berlin. I found it hard to believe him, but he intrigued me.

So the sk night, after work, I decided to call him. Somehow I wasn't nervous.

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Trees Hurry upi m so Cosgrove for sex now bare branches, naked, shameless. Dusty earth illuminated green and a loud game of soccer whooping and circling in fo out of the light. Zoi lived in what was once the old Greek quarter of Sirice, a lush hill village not five minutes away. He didn't know what it had been called when the Greeks were still there, and the Turks affected not to remember.

The villagers still lived in the manner of their Ottoman ancestors: In the population Minocqua wi ladies. of the twenties all its Orthodox Greeks were shipped back to the stony mainland and replaced by Muslim Cretans.

The problem was the Greeks couldn't speak Greek and the new Turks didn't understand a word of Turkish. Who was Greek and who Turkish?

And how could anyone really know? All that was long ago, and the abandoned villas and desecrated churches didn't hurt me the way they did him. Sirice was Hurry upi m so Cosgrove for sex now saving grace of my travels, those few narrow streets he and I spent our time in together, perfumed and redolent of old familiar loves, old Levantine joys; a small vivid box of gold and blue in an otherwise unbearable city.

Or so I tell myself. We don't merely have sex.

It's still different with us. He's not like this with everyone.

Lately I've come to watch us more intently in the mirror on the dresser; not with wonder and amazement as before but with a growing unease, shame, a faint conviction that our frenzied movements against each other have become futile and even ridiculous.

When I was, more to the point.

Our love was simple too, like a good landscape, the arid hills of his ancestral village, hiding nothing in the Greek glare, in the white summer light that flays doubt away. When I look further, most of my doubts aren't to do with him at all. It's all about me; the dithering, lack of emotion, absence of trust. I don't even like using the word trust, smacking as it does of psycho-babble and cheap spirituality.

I prefer to use the word love, covering Want some pice in your life multitude of sins. I love you but I'm leaving.

You love me but I can see that you hate me, too. Do you love me? And then, how much? At a loss to quantify it, to understand, to allay my fears, Zoi replies, 'Why do you ask such stupid questions?