Penny Hackworth-Smythe relaxed over her Negroni, vaping nonchalantly. Not just 15 minutes earlier, her fiancé and AFL rising star Blayne Grogan had ignored her once too often. How dare he gram that shot without giving Penny at least a moment to assemble her look. He fecking well didn’t even facetune it. He could be such a clod, yet he was still sexually critical to Penny’s life despite being over the hill at 26. Staring at him, nose deep in social media, Penny yearned for the days when they’d first met – a Defcon 1 party if memory served her. Blayne was shirts-off, quite eckied, Penny had gone ol’ skool with some weed a friend had smuggled in ‘internally’. She’d spied his torso through the crowd, their eyes had met, and that was it.
“I’m due at training” muttered Blayne, his voice reflecting off his $1000 Samsung.
“Bugger that” replied Penny. “What am I going to do?”.
She got up, forgetting to put on one of her crimson stilettos, and awkwardly rhumba’ed away from the cafe.
Single extraordinarily high heeled shoe, in red.