Monster Side

She patted the back of my hand,
urgency in her eyes and demeanor-
She often taps her fingers on tabletops when anxious-
and when I turned to her she said:
"Your monster side is showing."

We were at brunch.
I looked down at my hand under hers,
there on the white table cloth.
She quickly removed her skin from mine and,
yes, I could see it there,
the black, wiry hair poking out from the cuff of my sleeve.
I moved it under the table, smiled sheepishly.
I'd almost forgotten about those claws.

"When you laugh," she whispered,
"you scare the people at the next table.
I can see them cringing."
I pushed my lips down over the fangs.
"And," her eyes were cast down to avoid my yellow ones,
"when you talk, you gesture so much, and
your claws are so dirty. I don't think
we should do this any more."

I stared down at my palms, smooth and almost-human.
She quietly got her things, threw her hair
over her shoulder like she does,
and left.

I guess I should have known better
than to think my happiness could mask those nails,
or that smiling might diminish my teeth.

And anyway, what choice do monsters have in life
aside from becoming writers?
And who can write when they're happy?