Thirty-eight

I went out dancing by myself on a Friday night; yeah, I'm that girl.  The evening was filled with a great cast of characters on the dance floor: the girl there by herself smiling and dancing, the dude wearing a leather vest without a shirt who was feeling the music and would sporadically call out "oooooooooooooweeeeee" and was completely unaware of his surroundings, the friendly drunk guy who smelled a tad bit like vomit, the two extremely intoxicated girls one of which was wearing the tiniest strapless dress ever and wanted to dance with everyone, and finally the guy who seemed pretty normal but was also there by himself and would repeatedly come up to me and say things like "you really know how to dance" in a borderline polite/creepy way.  On the outskirts of the main ensemble was Thirty-eight, who was also alone but really seemed to be there for the music and was just minding his own business.

In the beginning he and I would just exchange looks of understanding when one of the other people got a little too close to our personal space.  In reality we probably didn't talk because we were afraid that the other one would be a weirdo.  He eventually broke the ice by saying, "You should try that move," as he demonstrated and pointed to the itty-bitty dress girl repeatedly trying to keep her her chest covered.  Finally two of his friends arrived, and they asked how we knew each other and then we all became dance floor buddies.  When it was time for me to leave, Jolene asked if she could get my number so we can all go out sometime.  I gave it to her and said bye to her and her boyfriend.  Then I turned to tell Thirty-eight bye, and he said he was sad I was leaving.  I told him to cheer up because Jolene had my number and that he should call me so we could go out; he said okay and gave me a hug.

It's been two weeks, and so far I haven't heard from Jolene or Thirty-eight.  Double whammy.