Finish the following story. Bonus points if the barista makes it out alive and non-lupine.
“Fuck my life!”
The barista was having a meltdown, and I was the one taking the heat. At five in the morning. On my way to move to a new city, a new life, a new identity. And there I stood, in the middle of nowhere, being yelled at by a barista, and a hung over one by the looks of it.
All because I didn’t want foam on my latte. Pardon me, I can’t digest that foam.
People often thing that werewolves only show their furry sides during a full moon. Those people are wrong. This werewolf was ready to fluff and bare teeth over being yelled at for no damn good reason.
The silence between us was as solid as the counter that separated us.
Time stretched. And so did my muzzle.