Today's short story. One of my favs. The first one I wrote :)
Imagine 'I' am male for this one.

   Like a sunrise after a cold and average night, her smile warmed the room. Striding forward, she glanced at all of us in the bar. I heard one of our lads whistle. We certainly didn't get any of her type around these parts normally. Though I couldn't actually tell you what 'her type' was.
   She lightly rested her elbows on the bar counter and ordered a full pint.
   "Women here tend to go for a glass of red, ma'am. Would you like that instead?" I heard the bartender ask.
   Simply shaking her head, she drummed her fingers on the wooden surface impatiently. Under the counter, she positioned herself on the balls of her feet. I assumed it was to avoid having to balance on those heels, being as thin as they were.
   The drink landed before her. She turned it in a full circle, seemingly to search for a handle, disappointed.
   "Three quid, Deary," the bartender said, holding out his hand expectantly.
   Neither was there a reply nor payment for the man as she span quickly, throwing the full glass straight at my mate Miguel's head.
   The glass met its target with enthusiasm, sending him to the floor. Suddenly, there was a sharp explosion of pain in my foot, where her heel remained, while the bartender received a punch to the face like a grenade, detonating on impact.
   Steven charged forward, joining the battle. As if she had the laser of a sniper pointed at his head, he froze as she launched an uncapped pen she'd picked from the bartender's pocket. Stumbling back slightly, if only from shock, he lifted a hand to his forehead. A big mistake. In that moment, her heel rose from my foot and punctured a bullet-sized wound in his chest.
   Other men charged forward, out from behind tables and across no man's land, acting on adrenaline.
   Cradling my foot, I stayed low, letting the others take the next round. My mind became my trench, where I hid in cowardice.
   A man I knew as Dave ran to the doors. I could sense the tension in the room, the cowards watching to see if he'd make it, hoping he would be going to call for backup. Standing at the double doors, he reached towards both handles.
   Meanwhile, as the bartender recovered enough to move forward with a punch of his own, the woman fired the pen lid through the top of his closed hand. Immediately, she span to kick Charlie in his chest. As her spear hit him, he grabbed it, taking the weapon for his own as he fell backward.
   Dave's fingers brushed the escape route handles when the woman shot an empty pint glass at his head. Losing a shoe hadn't seemed to faze her. The pieces of the broken glass ricocheted off the doors and surrounding wall and Dave stood dazed in the middle.
   The woman, having finally convinced all opposition to raise the white flag, sauntered over to Miguel's bag. Delicately, she lifted a velvet pouch from the suddenly intriguing rucksack. Miguel barely rose a finger in protest.
   Next, the shoe. Leaning over Charlie, she slipped her foot into the elegant high heel beside him. And then, she left.