Routine

Every day she moisturizes her scaly skin, blends concealer into foundation, powders until the surface of her face is as smooth as any woman's. The sharp edges of her claws, unaccustomed to so much peaceful disuse, ache her fingertips as they retract into their nail beds. She paints them a soft pink to distract the willingly unobservant. She brushes and flosses daily. She files down the points of her canines, which grow sharp again with each night's jaw-aching grind. The sun glints joyfully from her full, wide smile. She spends more time than you or I picking out just the right costume: dark blue suit, darker blue suit, black or camel. Each item is selected to highlight an attractive feature or to hide a flaw: her strikingly catlike eyes, or a hipbone that juts out at too harsh an angle. She is what one would call an immaculate dresser. In this disguise, she moves amongst us, receiving her treats and hiding her tricks.