Photograph by Lisa Shambrook (Please do not use without permission)His ring gently clinked, an almost unnoticeable sound against the rich, heavy beat of music, as he rotated the glass and studied the incoming crop of sniggering girls, all short skirts and boozy noise and his lip rose in a lazy sneer as he shook his head about to turn away from the brash invasion, but the last girl squeezing apologetically through the door caught his eye.
She quickly followed the gaggle of limbs and peroxide almost as if she was an afterthought, and she carefully pulled up a chair, sitting slightly to one side unconsciously stretching her skirt down over her knees and staring intently at her cultivated nails.
He watched the drinks arrive and the girls gather to leer at the waiter, pinching his seasoned rump and disregarding his tired protest, but from his vantage point at the bar he noted her discomfort and allowed a smile.
He ignored the flirtations and plumped-up pouts, thrusting cleavage bursting out of bra-tops and bare thighs advertising their wares, these offerings were not for his harvest.
Her lips were full and unpainted, hair the natural shade of corn, her eyes bright and sober, and her breast firm and ripe beneath her shirt where only a tiny tease of pink lace revealed itself, blooming like a lost flower against her flesh and he knew...he knew she was the one.