Pink Umbrella's

Nora

Nora Woods always found that the boy with abnormally dark hair was arrogant. She didn't like him.

It was very often that she'd find him by the bar on a late Friday night, beer in hand and casually leaning against the counter, attempting to chat up anyone with too much makeup, too little clothes; he was never picky. Nora supposed he would chat up anything with a pulse so long as they had female body parts and were remotely drunk. It was disgusting.

What was even more disgusting however was that he objectified these poor women and grabbed them when they were most vulnerable, then most likely had his way with them and then threw them away the next morning like they were nothing. Then he came back and did it all over again.

At first Nora had thought he was attractive; his flirty glances, his cheeky grin. She knew a good looking man when she saw one but it soon become clear he was just doing this for sex, or to show off, or maybe just to prove that he could. He was just full of himself, so sure he could get any woman he pleased. Nora would sometimes just watch his antics and feel sick - legitimately sick - and she would watch the women and shoot them sympathetic glances from afar. If only she was brave enough to go up to them and knock some sense into their intoxicated minds.

Nora wished that once - just once - a girl would have enough dignity for herself and say no, then pound his pride to the pavement.

It never happened though because when it comes to men, women are weak and will do anything in hopes a man will stay and care for them, and Nora (as a strong feminist) was disappointed on behalf of woman-kind for this.

"A lemonade please." She shouted across to the bartender. He looked in her direction and nodded,

"Sure."

"But can I have one of those cute umbrella things?"

"That's fine."

"In pink if you have any. If there's none then don't bother."

"O-kay."

"And also ice. Preferably crushed, but I'm not picky. But just on the side if that's okay?"

"We don't serve ice on the side."

"You don't?"

"No."

"Kyle always does."

"Kyle doesn't work here anymore."

"He doesn't?"

"No."

"Well, why not?"

"He kept doing things we told him not to. Like serving ice on the side."

"That's a shame. Where is he now?"

"Miss."

"Yes?"

"I have a job to do."

"Oh yes, of course you do. I'm sorry."

"I'll get to making your drink now."

"Okay, so if you just get a little plate to put the ice on, that'll be great." Nora takes a seat on a bar stool, completely oblivious to the dirty look the bartender is throwing her way as he curses her, but it's probably best because if looks could kill... Nora would never live to receive her lemonade.

Normally she orders a Red Russian with ice on the side, a slice of lemon stuck on the rim beside a pink umbrella with one third vodka and two thirds cherry liquor. If she's feeling adventurous she'll substitute in strawberry schnapps in place of the cherry liquor. Tonight however, it's lemonade. She's designated driver.