Like a pink tea rose in a bouquet of nettles and dust, Kiew She sat at the end of the bar.  Unescorted, her pink parasol rested lightly on her bare shoulder and revealed little of her form to the patrons behind her.  Her dress, pink as well and nestled snugly across her cleavage and freckled shoulder blades, was thin enough for the heat but too delicate for anything beyond a private garden or a bedroom.  Her body curved silkily onto the wooden bar stool, her back and waist as poised as any advertising model.  Her hair pinned up into a loose bun, she watched the bartender walk away, his business dismissed with a nearly unseen nod of her head.<br/><br/>Her business was not with him.<br/><br/>Seemingly unaware of the leering eyes of the gritty workers, Kiew kept her shoulders back but her eyes low, a posture at once proud and subservient.  Even as the crash of furnishings and the rumblings of the near fight began, she remained coolly indifferent, as if she were actually on as distant a planet she seemed to have come from.  The parasol spun casually like a petal on the wind; Kiew remained as she was intended.