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asses rang true again.
    Good news¸ turned out Gerhard was straight.
    Bad news, I found out at the airport.
    After our walk to my hotel, I failed in my mission. I, Selah Elmore, writer of erotica, expert in naked humans, chickened out.
    I decided I didn’t want to know.
    We had a connection and not enough time.
    I’d had years of no connections. Online dating, speed dating, mixers, bar pick-ups, grad students, divorced, widowed, perpetually single for obvious reasons … I had a long list of no connections. Sex? Easy. Having the ability to put up with someone enough to have a relationship? That was the part I could never seem to figure out. Or want. Friends in marriages and long-term relationships always talked about the work which went into keeping love alive. Blech.
    I had enough work.
    I had enough distractions.
    I didn’t have enough of whatever I had with Gerhard.
    He walked me to my hotel steps, double-Dutch-kissed me goodnight, and confirmed dinner for the next night. He didn’t push or ask to come up. Neither did I.
    Younger Selah yelled at me for cock-blocking us. What was the point of traveling the world if it wouldn’t include international relations? What happened to adding Holland to the United Nations of Peen?
    Gerhard happened.
    Damn him and his perfect suits.
    I sat in the departure lounge and thought about him. Every tall blond man earned a double-take from me, followed by disappointment each time.
    For our last dinner, we ate all of the cheese in Holland. Fried, baked, aged, fresh—the many faces of cheese. It was gluttonous and perfect.
    He told me how unexpected I was. I took it as a compliment.
    He said he enjoyed our time together. I agreed.
    He asked if I would keep in touch. I promised.
    I still chickened out.
    Young Selah gave me death stares as only a former goth girl could.
    He offered to bring me to the airport. I accepted. His sleek, black BMW cut through the traffic while I sat in the passenger seat and lost my nerve.
    Finally, outside departures, he leaned down to give me the double-kiss.
    And missed.
    His aim was off.
    His aim missed the corner he would have hit had he overshot the cheek.
    Gerhard Hendriks kissed me. Full on the mouth.
    He kissed me softly, lips closed, with faint pressure, but enough I felt it down to my toes. One hand reverently cupped my cheek while the other clasped mine.
    Softly, barely more than a breath, he whispered against my ear, “I hope our paths cross again soon.”
    He walked backward to his car, his eyes still on me. I stood at the curb, mouth open, nodding.
    Gerhard wasn’t gay.
    I was an idiot.
    Now I had six hours on my flight to Accra to stew about missed connections.
    A six hour flight and six months in Africa to moon over the Dutchman.
    I picked up the in-flight magazine and found the map of Africa. Kenya wasn’t impossibly far away from Ghana. Using my fingers, I discovered the distance was the same as Portland to New Orleans. Not impossible.
    Sighing, I closed the magazine and opened up my laptop. If I couldn’t pursue the real Gerhard, I could use him for inspiration for a new novel.

    “AKWAABA” SHOUTED THE colorful mural on the arrival building when I stepped off the plane’s stairs on the tarmac at Kotoka Airport in Ghana’s capital.
    Eight o’clock in the evening and warm, humid heat enveloped me. Thankfully July was reportedly one of the cooler months. By cool, temperatures hovered in the eighties between periods of rain and dust. Mixing rain and dust equaled mud. I looked down at my silver sandals and mentally apologized, knowing they wouldn’t survive the next six months.
    “ Akwaaba ,” the man inside the terminal welcomed me. While he reviewed my vaccinations card, I absentmindedly rubbed my left shoulder where I received seven, or maybe nine, shots for this trip. After verifying I had my Yellow Fever inoculation, he smiled and waved me through to baggage.
    Outside customs, chaos ruled when the trickle of passengers met a wave