Mickey hadn't dressed up. Or, rather, Mickey didn't dress up. He always seemed to dress the same: blue jeans, black shirts, all of them accentuating the shape of his body. Mickey didn't need his clothes to stand out. He had a face that did the standing out for him, and he did that even better without clothes.
Mickey had noticed the pretty girl with the odd tattoos on her face before, at school, but now, he knew he could easily talk to her. He sat down next to her, can of beer in his hand. "So, you came to the party to be alone?"