Everyone was drunk by the time the women started taking off their tops and shooting Polaroids of their boobs. The party was for Charlene. She wasn't going away, just quitting, but that hadn't stopped anyone from coming for one last farewell.
Brian, the only guy in the room, was asked to leave. He told the men in the backyard what was happening. The men went to the windows, but the shades were closed. The women were giggling.
Charlene's husband was away on business. "I hate that jerk," she told the women, half serious.
She held up her blouse, showed them the burn spot next to her navel.
"He did that?" Rachael asked.
"Sex," Charlene said. "I like kinky."
Bea showed a hickey she had on her nipple, Trish a bruise on her hip, Lucille a welt on her behind.
"I've had it with men," Charlene teased.
"We all have," said Bea.
They took more pictures, drained more bottles. The men peered at the blinds, beat on the doors, grew restless and heavy on booze.
Jon Morgan Davies
The Miracles of Antichrist