Thanks Cathi, for supplying the first line to this story. It's kind of a first draft and might never be finished, but I had so much fun writing it that I may as well post it up and invite constructive comments. Be gentle. Here goes...
She looked up to see the man staring at her. That familiar warm flush crept up Amber’s neck and over her face. Arms curled around in front of her abdomen to hide the object of his unwelcome gaze. Would last month’s night of drunken debauchery never be allowed to die a natural death?
“Hey – never seen a tattooed woman before?” she snarled, hoping he was the kind of man who was intimidated by displays of aggressive body art.
The man backed away, both hands raised in the traditional gesture of surrender.
Pity, he looked almost handsome and might even be single. Well, perhaps she should have thought of that before she went and got an image of a large, snarling rat engraved onto her belly.
It had been a very long, dry year for Amber. Ever since that morning Kevin left the house for a Red Bull and a steak'n'cheese pie and never came back, she’d spent most evenings moping about the flat trying to figure out what she'd done to cause his permanent departure. Her flashiest heels and slinkiest slipdresses languished in the wardrobe. Her friends despaired.Until, of course, that night last month. It had taken weeks of cajoling, but Amber had finally let herself be dragged out of the house, to attend Melissa’s biker-themed hens night. Whose idea it was, to spend a whole evening in leather and vinyl, lurching from one dive-y bar to the next, she didn't know. None of the other girls seemed to object though - in fact, they seemed positively titillated by the idea.
Clad in skintight black vinyl jeans, vest, biker cap and knee high, Amber looked more like a dominatrix than a woman in charge of a motorcycle. Still, if a get-up like this failed to extract Amber from her shell, then nothing would. Well, except perhaps a few well-mixed cocktails.
Might as well cover her bases.
Apparently they were kicked out of about twenty bars from one end of town to the next, soaring on a wind of sexy invincibility. Men in suits punched each other over them, excited Bogans tried to induce catfights amongst them and bikers - real bikers - thought they'd died and gone to heaven. Apparently the last venue on the itinerary had Costa's Tattoo Parlour. Amber had a very vague recollection of flicking through pages of ink drawings, but thought she'd settled on a monarch butterfly. In the morning she'd found torn bits of paper napkin in her pockets, covered in scrawled telephone numbers and names like "Bazzer", "Scrub" and "Chug". She'd sincerely hoped those scraps of hopeful communication hadn't been reciprocated.
This is fun! I've got months' worth of potential blog posts here!