Missionary Position by Daisy Prescott Page A

grinned at your phone I wasn’t sure if you wanted company. Husband? Boyfriend?”
    My smile faltered. Gerhard was neither. I wasn’t interested in the former, and the latter was impossible given our geographic issues. “Neither.”
    “Lover? No one smiles that way about a friend or family member.” Ama’s eyes twinkled as she sipped her drink.
    “Unfortunately, no. The potential is there, but geographically it would be impossible.”
    “You won’t be here forever. Who’s to say what’s possible? When I was your age, I never imagined I’d be sitting on this side of the Atlantic waiting for the afternoon rain.”
    At her mention of rain, I noticed the hazy blue sky had become gray.
    “Does it rain here every day?” I asked when the first drops created dark circles on the dirt pathway.
    “In July? No, not like the monsoon rains of May and June that feel like you’re showering outside wearing clothes.”
    “Sounds fun. Is it bad that whenever I think of rain here, I think of Toto?”
    “The dog from the Wizard of Oz ?”
    I laughed. “No, the band.”
    “Oh!” Her own laughter joined mine. “Wrong Toto.”
    “Although the analogy works, too. I don’t think lizards show up at breakfast in Kansas.”
    “The lizards are harmless. However, that Toto song is an ear-worm. And probably the reason generations of Americans think of Africa as a country, not a continent.”
    We fell into a discussion of Toto’s Africa lyrics. The rain ended around the same time we reached our conclusion about the words; they didn’t make sense, but were definitely, without a doubt, about longing for love, as most songs were.
    Tables filled with patrons, bottles, glasses, and plates of food while the sky darkened with evening. No sunset for my second night in Ghana. I joined Ama’s group, which consisted of Ursula, the German woman from breakfast; the Americans, Nadine and Nathan, professors of anthropology and sociology, respectively; a gorgeous, dark, bearded Italian named Vincenzo on his way to see the elephants in Mole; and his scowling, thin wife Marta. She was probably lovely and didn’t appreciate my flirting. I stopped once Ama politely pointed out their marital status, but her scowling didn’t.
    The night wound down after plates of fish with a mysterious, but delicious, sauce had been consumed. Ama explained some of the unfamiliar names like omo tuo , fufu, and banku, while Nathan joked about the famous shi-to pepper sauce giving the “shit-o’s” if eaten too much.
    I didn’t think about my phone or text messages until I returned to my quiet room close to eleven. There wasn’t a great signal, but I hit send on another text to Gerhard:
    * Fufu, banku, I miss you too. *
    I giggled at my lame attempt at rhyming.
    A reply pinged almost immediately.
    * Do you? This might make it worse. *
    Attached was picture of a very large windmill towering behind a very handsome Gerhard. I smiled at his gorgeous grin.
    I responded: * Impressive. *
    My phone chimed.
    * Thank you. *
    * I meant the windmill. *
    * If you only knew. *
    Wait. What? Was Gerhard sexting innuendos about his penis?
    I lay in bed with memories of blue eyes, pretentious suits, large windmills, and one soft, unexpected kiss. I sighed with frustration. It could be a long, pining six months.
    Sadly, Vincenzo was married. Maybe I’d meet a missionary I could corrupt.

    DRESSED FOR ADVENTURE in khaki capris, a short sleeve blue shirt, and large, floppy hat, I stood outside of the hotel’s entrance, attempting to learn the Ghanaian handshake-snap greeting from Kofi. The trick was to shake hands, then snap your middle finger against theirs when you pulled apart, like a secret spy handshake. Kofi laughed at my frustration while I mumbled faux curses each time my attempt to make the snap sound failed.
    “I’ll get this down!” I vowed. “Before I leave in six months, I’ll be the best Obruni snapper you’ve ever met.”
    He smiled the way you do at precocious