Fourty-one cents

Scarlet patent leather pumps, sweaty ginger hair, electric blue dress. As she staggers out the door, inebriated, her jacket hanging off one arm, they look at her and at each other. Four in the morning, three young men lingering in front of the venue. Orange light, brown stones, the faint thump thump from the music inside. One wears black. His hair is slicked back, smothered in solidified hair product, you could snap off a strand if you so desired. She struggles to button up her trenchcoat, the cigarette in her lipsticked mouth waiting to be lit. The one in black starts. One dime at a time, he tosses them at her, but she is too involved with the buttonholes to notice. The fourth coin hits her cheek, and she looks up in surprise. He hides behind a group of people heavily dicussing. She can't see him, and reaches in her pocket for her lighter.
Ignoring his friend, number two decides a different approach. He walks up to her, offers a light. She gestures to the lighter in her hand, but accepts his offer nonetheless. As her fingers surround the flame, they block out the wind, and he asks her where they are going afterwards. Where is the afterparty? She shakes her head, it's time for bed. Tomorrow's another long day, and it's too late already. The dime man shouts something. She can't quite distinguish his voice, as sounds of smokers blur his shouts. He hollers again, he's screaming profanities, she hears it now. Is he talking to her? She looks at him, he looks back. A penny finds it's way across the crowd, hits her smack in the eye. Tell him to stop, she tells his friend. That's no way to treat a woman. She nervously tries to ignore him, and starts groping in her bag, looking for her bike keys. The purse is too full, she's in a hurry. A phone falls out, it bounces on the sidewalk. As she tries to pick it up, bending over, more bursts out of the bag. A tampon, a pen, lipstick, her sunglasses, pocket change, the keys. She snatches them and grabs the dimes that were thrown at her in the process, unaware, distracted. No one notices her as she scrambles on the floor, the crowd continues smoking, smooching, smouldering cigarettes, smiling. But she doesn't smile as she gets up. The men are still there, they gather around her, she starts walking to her bicycle. Parked right in front of the club, it's rusty body leans against a pole, waiting to go home.
Where are we going, they ask again. Listen boys, I'm going home. Keys in hand, she leans over the bike. The third one taps her on the shoulder and points to a tarrying taxicab. Let's go, he gestures, slyly grinning, baring one gold tooth. He is small, stout. The smell of cheap cologne finds it's way to her nose. It itches. The lock is as rusty as the bike it holds, and the key protests silently. She wriggles it in vain, as the one in black approaches. There are no more dimes. He stands still in front of her, urges her to stand up straight, as he points his finger directly in her face. Tell him to go away, she whispers to the friend, voice trembling. You know what we're doing? You're coming with us, the one in black shouts. She leans back, but he is too close. I'm going to fuck you long and hard in the ass, you whore! Her eyes widen, she snaps. Before she knows it, her hand flashes, and with a swift but deliberate gesture she streaks him across the face,
SMACK
For a moment everything falls silent.
But he reacts fast.
His left fist pulls back, and he moves his whole body. With a loud thump, it lands on her right eye, forcing her body off balance. The smokers stop smoking, she falls to the ground, sobs. The man screams she hit me first, she hit me first, she hit me first, she hit me first. Large men in shimmering jackets step out of nowhere and hold him down. The bouncers. He tries to escape, his face fiery red, his eyes flaming, his fists clenched. She is bleeding, a golden ring cut it's way through her flesh, throbbing cheeks, she cries. A man grabs her shoulders. Can you walk, let's get you out of here, which one was it, you want to call the police, are you alright, give me your hand, come on let's go, sit here, don't listen to him, we have him, you want water, what's your name, she can't hear him, he talks too much but his hands are big and the low voice soothing her, she sinks in a chair inside. The four large men still have their hold on him, his friends stand by. Hands in pocket, astounded, quiet, ashamed. One picks up the cigarette she dropped, covered in red lips, still smoking from the light he gave her.
As the sirens grow louder, he let's it fall back to the ground, stepping on it as if to hide the evidence. The police take him away, hollering, howling, piercing, and disregarded the key sits safely nestled in the lock as the bike waits, and waits, to go home. No one will ride it tonight.