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polka, and my Polish blood surged. I let go of Petra’s hands. I was born to dance and dance I would, with nothing to stop me.
    For a good ten seconds.
    What happened next was not my fault. As I shouted, “I’m twinkling.” I took to the air. I flew straight at, not into the arms of, one of the handsomest hunks of manhood I’d seen in a good long while.

Chapter 3
    Carl Lipca. That name seemed to erupt from every other mouth in Las Vegas. I heard about him first in a gushingly, girlish, dishy kind of conversation between Vera and one of the teens. I swear Vera had to wipe drool from her mouth as she ogled Carl’s photo, which appeared next to his editorial in the newspaper. Vera has a crush on Carl, I wanted to taunt, but I was too mature for that, even though I sang it in my mind. He was young enough to be her grandson. Oh, yuck.
    I shoved that ick-o piece of too-much-information to the back of my mind.
    Carl was this straight-arrow journalist for the local paper who seemed to be one step ahead of every issue, a homegrown celebrity and the city’s most eligible bachelor. Talk around Vera’s desk had been that he might run for mayor, might try out to anchor CBS News, and had been seen at the Academy Awards on the arm of a starlet. As to whether they were an item, Vera said, “Not at all, but he has been taking acting lessons,” certain as all get out.
    For about two seconds at the most, I wondered what a card carrying AARP-age church secretary and cuddly, most definitely hunky journalist would have in common. I tossed that tantalizing thought through the window with some of my more obscure romantic fantasies and realized it was probably pubescent infatuation on Vera’s nipped and tucked face.
    Yes, these life-in-front-of-me flashings were circling my brain whilst I was airborne.
    So picture this: Me, Little Miss Twinkle Toes, making an impression on the suave Carl Lipca. Boy, did I do it. Imagine if you will, while pondering my look-away embarrassment, a pleasingly plump pastor parading in a precarious polka as I became a potent projectile zeroing in on this picture of pulchritude and perfection. Yep, I made a donkey’s south end of myself.
    “You okay, lady?” he said between puffs of ragged inhalations.
    Love at first sight? My heart was racing, my pulse pulsating. His luscious lips were close to mine, and all I had to do was scream straight at him, “Um, yeah, my, um, foot slipped.” My foot may have slipped, but the bottom line was that my backside was now squarely straddling him in a variation of the missionary position. If we were alone and hadn’t had clothes on … Oh, dream on. Yes, I planned to do just that, at length, when I was thoroughly alone.
    When I write my book on ways to get guys to notice a woman, this will not be in the manual. “Stay still. Are you hurt?” I asked as I lifted my buttocks off his lower-than-the-waist midsection, if you get my drift, and tried to balance with my hand on the floor. Unfortunately my palm was sweaty. Unfortunately the floor was slick, and I flopped down in his face with an, “Ohhhh.” And for your information, our mouths touched, and he’d probably have a fat lip since my teeth collided with the aforementioned lip. I tasted blood. It wasn’t mine.
    Hands grabbed me around the waist. I think it was Petra, and I rolled off his body. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
    Carl dashed to his feet, terrified that I’d heave myself at him again, and pulled Petra between us. Her tiny size wouldn’t help much, but I guess it made the guy feel safer because I’m certain he considered me a Looney Toon. Make that a dangerous Looney Toon.
    “Jane, oh, my, please let me help you to a chair.” Petra wrapped an arm around me. “You’ll be fine, you slipped. It can happen,” she said, cooing as if she were talking to a baby.
    I would have gobbled it up; I’m a sucker for sympathy, but I saw Carl retreat, placing a tissue over his mouth. He pulled it back, saw the blood,