After another fifteen minutes of waiting, I decided I’d be safer up on the Overhead, out of the flow of traffic and a potential mugging. I clutched my overnight bag, regretting having packed my laptop and digital camera. Once I made it to the first landing of the bridge, some of my anxiety eased up. Happy I wasn’t afraid of heights, I settled in to watch your approach. I stood for what seemed like an hour but in reality was about 30 minutes. I kept my eyes peeled to where the taxis usually dropped off passengers. You stood out. Tall, taller than most Ghanaian men I had encountered. You were lean. Lanky. Dressed like you had a meeting to attend. But then again, you were always impeccably dressed. There was no mistaking you were a man with a purpose as you strode toward the bridge. If I could have run down those stairs, I would have. But the steps of the bridge were uneven and each inch of the railing had a hawker or panhandler permanently affixed to it. I settled for slowly descending, willing the butterflies in my belly to calm down. When I arrived at the bottom, I took your hand and was about to drag you towards the queue of vans when you pulled me into what I would come to know as one of your signature hugs. You brought your head down and firmly planted your lips on mine. You wouldn’t take my tense body for an answer. You were determined to kiss me no matter what. I was nervous about all the eyes that were on me/us. You got me to relax finally and once I did, I realized how much I loved kissing you and why nothing and no one in the world mattered when you were kissing me.