His first mistake is to rest his hand on her arse. Caroline turns her head and glares at the man leering at her from behind the bastion of his ill-fitting polyester suit. He reeks of sweat and entitlement, and after a day listening to public schools policy mangled by an ill-prepared man elevated three positions beyond his capabilities, she is not in the mood.
"Take your hand off my arse or I'll chop your dick off and make you swallow it."
Her intentions are as clear as her diction and her voice carries around the bar.
The smug smile slides off his face as what he thought would be a simple proprietary grope of a beautiful blonde turns sour. The sounds of conversation in the retro bar dim, revealing the mellifluous intonations of Sade's Smooth Operator, a stinging indictment of his gauche attempt at performative masculinity. The gaze of his mates and the crowd upon him, he steps up his game, embarking boldly on his second mistake.
"I can show you a good time." He leans in, the whisky on his breath encasing him in a fog of self-righteous self-deception. "You know you want it."
The disadvantages of wearing high heels and a pencil skirt are now apparent. A loss of options in the kicking and kneeing department leaves Caroline with her hands. Stronger than she looks, she spies his loose pants before grabbing his balls firmly in her left hand, and twisting. A strangled cry falls from his mouth as he buckles. Her right hand around his throat, she pushes him backwards towards his mates, depositing him unceremoniously on the bench seat next to them.
"Oh come on...you know you want it." She wears a murderous smile. His mates look on, mouths gaping. After a final crushing squeeze she releases him. He crumples.
"Perhaps you might keep your hands to yourself next time." She turns to leave the flock of polyester pigeons to their games, when the word "Cunt" hits her ears. She stops, looks over her shoulder at them, eyebrow raised.
"Well, you know what they say: you are what you eat."
With a flick of her blonde hair, Caroline nonchalantly saunters back to the bar, knowing all eyes are upon her. Grateful that her full-bodied red is waiting for her, she drops a tenner on the bar, takes a large swig and turns to face the crowd.
"Ladies," she salutes with her glass, looking around for the first time at the witnesses. Every woman in the room is watching with admiration and gratitude, and some with lust. It is the latter that inspires the rest of her evening.
.
.
"I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent."
From "Monet Refuses the Operation" by Lisel Mueller