Inky Vixen

A night owl, a lone wolf, a minx. Light shines from the yellow-tinted street lamps through your lashes, catching on the glitter stuck to the tips and refracting itself in your eyes. Creating rainbows, just for you to see. Maybe a girl like you shouldn’t be out this late at night, but even that thought doesn’t deter you from taking the long way home. You revel in your solitude, rejoice in your loneliness. Less than an hour has gone by since you waved goodbye to the drunken whores you call your friends and began your pilgrimage of 1.7 miles back to your flat.

You wrap your leather jacket around you and your black dress melts into the surroundings. You sink into the night, almost invisible but for your pale-moon face. It shines with leftover makeup and leftover sweat. Maybe you’re a bit drunk, you realize, as you struggle to fit your key into the lock.

Silence engulfs you as you step into your home and you throw your bag down and kick off your shoes. And your foot is bleeding. You stare at it for a moment, decidedly drunk, before padding down the hallway, uninterested or unconcerned about the dots of crimson leaving a bloody bread crumb trail in your wake. You open your freezer, elated by the half-empty pint of ice cream sitting alone on its shelf, giving in fully to a stereotype as you pick up a spoon and eat straight from the container. Suddenly you’re annoyed by your squeaky leather and form fitting dress, almost dropping your dessert in the haste to shed your exoskeleton.

You move, indecent, to the couch. You predict, correctly, that you will end your night here, half naked and horny, with Friends on the big screen and a melting pint of ice cream in your hand.

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