Chapter 4 - Fiona

Pooh had to admit it: he was having one helluva day. Not only had he scored his new swank-ass bear shirt, but he'd scored the digits for that fox down at the barbershop.

He'd needed a trim for quite some time and his new shirt had given him the swagger to swag right on over to the barbershop. He saw her the minute he walked in.

Fiona. She made his Pooh Bear heart do a loopty-loop and a pitter patter. Tigger and Roo were always on his ass to go talk to her, but despite his newfound swagger and swank-ass bear status, he was rather the shy fellow.

"Hey, Pooh. Great to see you. Wow. Nice shirt," said Fiona, a slight smile turning up the corners of her lips.

And then, right there, Winnie the Fucking Pooh was tongue tied. He felt the same was as he had when Tigger had convinced him to try Malort for the first time -- like all the things in his mouth were evil but he certainly couldn't spit them out for fear of being rude. Which, by the by, should a friend ask you to try Malort, Pooh could recommend finding a new friend.

"Uhhrrrrr...thanks. Nice fur," Pooh mumbled. Fiona just stared.

Holy fucking shit, I'm a tool, thought Pooh. Nice FUR? Why do I even bother going out in public? Great. Now I sound like Eyore. She hates me. I should just really not speak. Ever. I mean, like never ever. Fuck this shirt and my mouth and my brain that's filled with Fiona and it's probably best if I run out the door right now and directly into traffic.

"It's sweet of you to notice, Pooh. I just got groomed yesterday," Fiona said.

Wait, thought Pooh. Did I say something right? She... liked it? Oh, well, this is even fucking worse because she's going to expect me to say something else. And that, thought Pooh, was the worst thing of all.

Aside from the thought of Tigger on that way-too-pure Colombian blow they had a few weeks ago. That was worse. And a bit amusing all at the same time.

And so it went with Pooh and Fiona. Pooh got his fur shorn (and his swank-ass bear status reinforced) and on his way out, Fiona touched his paw and slipped a folded piece of paper into it. He made sure he was well down the block from the barbershop before he dared steal a look.

He unfolded the slip of paper, squinting his eyes and turning his head ever so slightly, bracing for the fallout.

"555-555-9457 Fiona. Let's grab a drink."

And there, right there on the sidewalk that day -- in the hands of a bear named Pooh -- one bit of wood in the Hundred Acre Woods was created.