Hiroko is a smart TV tarento and it's her birthday so I've got a big treat in store for her: I've rustled up a pair of guest passes for a sold-out Guitar Wolf gig.
She seems a pretty tough girl, as far as I can tell. She's tall, does gym, talks about sex on the telly, quaffs tequila shots if you're paying and says no to nothing. Yeh, one of those. We move into the Guitar Wolf mosh pit and everything seems cool. After a few punk songs we're bouncing and I ask for her hand to push me up so I can surf on the crowd.
As she hoists me up, my steel-toe capped Dr. Marten boot flicks up and graces her nose, splitting it a little, blood spurts, not enough to justify rhinoplasty, but enough, more than enough, to ruin the white dress her mother gave her for her birthday, just, well, just this morning. Upon my return from the pit I apologize profusely and buy her drinks all night and she accepts and says everything is OK, but never returns another phone call.