He stares at her through a haze of depression and alcohol, mind alternately comparing his best friend to a saint and "Lucifer Himself." In truth, he can't decide which idea fits best.
She'd never be able to wear her beloved boots properly with goat hooves. Horns might be a stretch, maybe tiny ones? Ones that could be hidden... yes, oh, he'd have to find a way to check later. Running fingers through her long hair might be too obvious. Maybe if...
Well, she didn't have any bloody wings either, so maybe neither really fit, but he'd check for tiny wings as well just in case. That will be harder. He nods to himself and catches her attention.
They exhange tiny, shy smiles.
Bugger. It was all he could manage to think. Bugger it all if she isn't perfect, whatever she is.
Later in the evening, a few drinks later, he decides to write a book of casual observations no one seems to make. Things of this nature - "Who really cares if a tree makes noise when it falls if there ent anyone around to hear it?"
Even later he decides not enough people write haiku poetry, and vows that it, too, will be in his book.
The next morning he wakes beside his best friend, who just smiles, and sets about making breakfast. He wishes he could remember what happened, but it doesn't really matter because he can tell by her smile she doesn't hate him. He also cannot remember what made him call her Lucifer, because her wings are so obvious to his eyes now.
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