Missionary Position(6)

By: Daisy Prescott


“If I’d known, I would have flattered him more.” I smiled at her.

“By the way he looked at you when you walked away, I think you made a very good impression.” Martha laughed.

Interesting. I glanced at the group and found a set of stormy eyes meeting my own. I raised my glass and mouthed, “Thanks.”

Mr. Navy Suit smiled with closed lips and raised his own glass. I noticed red talon woman had left. Even knowing I’d never see him again, it made me happy she wasn’t his date. Or worse, his girlfriend. Such a cliché.

Martha and I chatted about Ghana and my project at the national museum. She was optimistic about my sabbatical research and encouraged me to promote my name with TNG for additional funding. After I rolled my eyes and joked about having my hat out for donations, she made a point to introduce me to several suits, sadly none of them was Mr. Navy. I scanned the room for him, but he’d disappeared. Poof. Like Cinderella.

A glance at my watch informed me I was about to be late for my drink with Gerhard. I hoped the bar had food. Two glasses of champagne into the evening and I hadn’t eaten since an early lunch. Yikes.

After quick double kisses to Martha with a promise to keep in touch from Ghana, I rushed outside to find a taxi to the hotel.

Ready or not, Gerhard, I’m coming.





THE ELEVATOR DOORS opened on a high floor to reveal a twinkling view of Amsterdam in the dusky evening light. I stood for a moment near the entrance. Rich brown leather chairs, cream accents and flattering lighting gave the bar the look of a men’s club. My glance moved around the room, which was sprinkled with men in suits and chic women, not a backpacker in sight.

Nor did a single man in a suit appear to be Gerhard; not unless he had become much, much older than Anita, or had brought a date with him. I debated between taking a table near the windows or a seat at the bar where I could watch the elevators. I chose the bar. While I waited, I could chat with the bartender, easing the awkwardness of this blind date feeling over something which wasn’t a date.

A handsome young man wearing a crisp, white shirt rolled to his elbows and a black vest greeted me, placing a napkin and small bowl of bar kibble on the cool marble in front of my stool. Bless him. I ordered a dirty vodka martini and inhaled the bar snacks. The bowl was empty before the bartender finished making my cocktail. It was a very small bowl. Tiny.

My stomach no longer empty, I took a sip of what was possibly the best vodka martini ever and moaned, not loudly, but loud enough the bartender smirked.

“Enjoying your drink?”

I turned toward the voice.

Stormy Seas.

“Hi.” Mr. Navy Suit glanced between me and the bartender, waiting for me to respond.

“Of all the gin joints,” I mumbled to myself.

“Kiss me as if it were the last time,” Stormy Seas quoted my favorite line from Casablanca.

I blinked at him, speechless.

“Let’s try again.” He smiled down at me. Even on my perch on the barstool, he still towered over me. “Hello.”

“Hi.” My brain still worked.

“Are you alone?” He gestured to the stool next to mine.

“Yes. No. I’m meeting someone.”

His smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

“American?”

“No, he’s Dutch.”

He chuckled. “No, I meant you. You don’t sound Dutch.”

“It was my accent that gave it away? Not my dark hair, olive skin, and Lilliputian height?”

“You’re sitting down.”

“Oh, right.”

“So you are American?”

“Yes. And I’m guessing you’re Dutch.”

“Was it the accent?” he mimicked me. His eyes sparkled like sun on dark water.

“That and the package.”

He coughed. I tried not to look at his crotch after my word slip, but failed. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see anything. Bastard suit jacket.

“I meant your height and overall Dutchness.”

He bit his bottom lip and nodded for me to continue.

“You look Dutch. Tall, fair, blue eyes. Add some wooden shoes and a pointy hat, put your finger in a dyke, and you’d be straight out of a children’s book.”

I had said finger and dyke in the same sentence to Navy Suit. I hoped he didn’t catch it. By the way his eyes bulged, obviously he did.

“You must be Selah,” he stated, shaking his head with a chuckle. “Anita told me you were funny.”

I choked on a sip of my martini and tried to swallow. “What?”

“You’re Selah, yes? Anita met you at JFK?”

Mr. Navy Suit was Gerhard. Holy fucking gene pool.

Thank you, Anita.

“I am. You must be Gerhard.”

Something flashed behind his eyes and then he nodded. “Yep, Gerhard. That’s me.”

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