Short Story - March 2007

Holding out for a Hero

I noticed her hair first because it was glossy and mostly the other women’s hair was dull and stiff with lacquer. It snaked in dark blonde coils to her shoulders. She should have had bigger hair, say like Charlie’s Angels. Big hair of that quality would have looked stupendous, instead at the front it hung limply around her face and as the evening wore on it got flatter and more untidy.
She was in her late twenties; squashed into hipster, black leather trousers and a skin tight, see-through shirt. She wore her clothes with the confidence of a woman who’d once known her figure was desirably voluptuous. That must have been at least a kilo ago. Her name was Karen.

“Karen, what you having?” someone asked.

“Vodka tonic.”

Later the bar ran out of tonic.

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