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Marty pulls on the wig, fastening it to his head fur with small clips. It was real hair—cost him weeks of saving, but it was so worth it. A gentle tug on a caramel-colored lock confirmed that it was firmly in place. He stared into the mirror of unisex bathroom, the fluorescent buzz interrupted by a light-hearted hum from the stoat’s chest. All week long he hustled doing whatever he needed to. Once a week though, every Friday he went out and was free. The anticipation had his stomach in knots. It was always a risk, going out dressed like this, which ultimately added to the excitement of it all.

 

Carefully and tastefully applying eyeliner and false eyelashes, Marty blinked at the face that greeted him in the mirror. It always blew his mind how vastly a bit of simple makeup and a wig can change someone’s looks. Add accessories (a few stylish bead bracelets he’d gotten from a thrift shop, clip-on earrings from the same place), and the right clothing and for the night, Marty was Martina. Back into the backpack he stuffed his regular clothes, checking himself over one more time in the mirror. The new outfit was great, a cream knit turtleneck and a comfortably short rust suede skirt. A simple, functional canvas messenger bag was his purse of choice since it also held his old clothes. A spritz of Neutra-scent and another of a perfume that was subtle—sensitive noses and all—but had touches of various fruits.

 

Marty, now fully in Martina-mode, did some window shopping first but since he had blown most of his funds for fun on this outfit, it didn’t hold the same appeal. It was still early, but he found his paws carrying him down a familiar path. His destination? A bustling bar called “Hair of the Wolf,” which was as wolf-heavy as the name might suggest, but most anyone was welcome except on Wednesdays and Saturdays. The stoat was nursing a soda, subtly eyeing the crowd, when someone sat beside him, cutting off his view. The view that replaced it, he…well, he wouldn’t complain. The wolf had pepper gray and black fur and Martina couldn’t help but wonder if he flexed too hard would that shirt that clung to the him just shred. He leaned on the bar with the cool confidence of an apex predator and smiled wolfishly down at the stoat. Letting the straw fall from his mouth, Martina met his eyes for but a moment—piercing glacier blues—before averting his gaze submissively and with a bit of genuine shyness.

 

”H-hi,” Martina’s words stuck in his throat, putting on a higher voice he had practiced for hours.

 

”Now…aren’t you just bite-sized?” His voice was deep and velvety, the kind of voice you expect to hear on the radio.

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