The yawning cuffs of our wide-leg, low-rise jeans suck up water from the mound of uncleared snow smothering the sidewalk outside the dive bar. We huddle together, each of us clad in skimpy crop tops or flimsy tanks, our half-naked limbs offering meager warmth against the frigid February night. We shudder and shrink, a meek pack cowed by the Alpha guarding the door, silent and stoic, assessing our worth for entrance, for acceptance.
Once inside, we are warmed by cheap beers and hungry stares, wolfish eyes keenly focused on our exposed midriffs, starved and gleaming in the dim lights. We form our circle. We dance. We keep the mangey boys at bay with our fat cuffs, a wall of denim, damp and heavy and stiff, cuffs that hide our cheap boots, the ones with the peeling rubber that we color black, passing around our permanent marker until the ink runs dry.
Hours of inebriation and inattention drive the boys to desperation. When a loner breaches our sphere, the others become bold. We can feel our protection wane, and so we flee. Our cuffs dry and light, we bound and laugh and howl into the moonlit night.
