I open the door and she is in my bed.
While I'm surprised she chose this way to do it, I'm not surprised at her advances. I've noticed her noticing the way I've noticed her.
I was deadly serious when I told her I would be proud to look the way she does. She astonishes me. She is living, walking proof of the wonders our genes are creating in the world. I have only caught her true form in fleeting glimpses; her bewitching golden eyes and flaming locks, her undeniable difference.
She speaks and I'm jolted out of my thoughts I must put her off; she's young and inexperienced. At life, anyway, no doubt she is more experienced in these sorts of situations than I am. It wouldn't be hard. Her false form is conventionally beautiful. She could have almost any man she wants with those looks.
I tell her no. Fob her off with an excuse - she's too young. Predictably she changes to look like most men's dream of an adult woman, mature and sultry, how she might look in a few years if she was what she wanted so much to be. Normal.
The thought pains me. Shocks me in a way I hadn't expected. I am stunned into honesty.
"I prefer the real Raven."