Wherein I Kiss Again and Tell Again, part II

A vigorous, funky groove pulsates through me. Between the music, half a glass of champagne a bit earlier,* and the fact that an adorable man had planted his lips on mine at midnight, I buzz ecstatically into 2014.

Donna shifts further from me and closer to the stage again. My attention strays to a tall, slender man bouncing by my side.  He's cute, in a young Woody Harrelson kind of way. With a beer bottle in one hand, he offers the other for an introduction.

“Happy New Year. I’m Woody.”**

I knew it! “Happy New Year. I’m Robyn.” 

Woody abruptly finds a nearby table on which to unload his beer and returns, determined to focus on dancing with me. I'm elated by another dose of male attention--more than I got all last year. This guy's fun too, probably a 30-somethinger. I like to get down low (when I’m dancing) and Woody keeps up just fine, mimicking my movements, and taking my hands sporadically to spin me around.

“You’re fun,” I spout.

“So are you. You’re great, Robyn.”

“Thanks.” This is going well. Really well. But I feel off-balance. Damn heels. I hate them. I hope I don’t fall. I’m probably not completely sober. Oh no, I’m slipping. Woody grabs me by the waist and steadies me. Phew. We keep grooving, as though it never happened.

His hand grazes the side of my body, and Woody tells me he’s been in Chico for 17 years.  He’s working on his Master’s in Psychology. Pretty good, I think, admiring his soft blue eyes, dirty blond hair, and marginally innocent smile.

“What do you do, Robyn?”

“Social services. I’m a—” I stop myself from saying that I’m also a writer.  And I write humorous snippets about my non-romantic romantic life. He’ll likely be the subject of my next blog post, especially if he proves himself a jerk or a dufus—“I’m a social worker.” That was close.

We chat and keep dancing and time floats by. Woody pulls his phone out and asks for my number.

“Sure,” I say. He types it, as I enunciate each number, digit by digit: 8, 6, 7, 5, 3, 0, 9.***

“I’m going to call you. I am. Can I take you to dinner sometime?” he asks.

“Yeah, that’d be nice.” I try to look cool and hide my excitement.

Woody leans closer and wraps his arms around me in a tender embrace. He pulls back slightly,  gently strokes the side of my face and kisses me, with fervor and a teaser of tongue.

Am I dreaming? I don't think so because my feet hurt like hell. Wow. Kisses from not one but two men! That only happens to other women like Carrie Bradshaw.

“You made my New Year’s, Robyn.”

“You made mine too.” Well, the other guy did first. He was a little cuter and younger too. But your kiss was just as good. Almost. He edged you out due to his timing and boldness. Otherwise, it was a very close race.  

--

As I clumsily approach my door at 2am, my phone rings. It's Woody, already. We speak briefly, sharing that we're glad to have met, and confirming a date for dinner Friday night.“But what day is it?” I ask. “I think it’s Wednesday. Or is it Thursday? I’m all mixed up. Maybe it’s Tuesday. Hm, why don’t we make exact plans after a good night’s sleep? Friday's good though.”

“Okay, I’ll let you get some sleep. Goodnight, Robyn.”

“Goodnight, Woody.”

Stay tuned for part III.

*I'm such a lightweight. Let's keep that a secret. Thanks.
**Not his real name. Woody is a euphemism.

***I gave him my actual number, not Jenny’s. For you youngins, I’m referencing Tommy Tutone’s 1982 hit single, Jenny.