You stretch to the heavens, closing your laptop with a soft click. It whirrs as you place it on your desk, making sure to poise it correctly at a precise angle. You move a jar of pens. Exactly 22 pens, all clicker side up, each one is of the Pilot G-2 series. When you kept contact with anyone other than your cousin, Dave, your friends would tell you that you had problems. You do not actually have problems. No. You have compulsions, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. None of them are harmful, you merely like everything in it’s proper place. You’re a woman of routine. You ready yourself with a quick tooth-brushing. You comb your hair into it’s place, pull a tanktop over your head, shorts over your legs, pearls around your throat, you slip on a ring over your index finger. It has four pearls. Your mother gave it to you on your sixteenth birthday. You secretly cherish it. She’ll never know.
You pull on a pair of flats, white with opalescent accents. They match your toes. You fix your eyeliner, a very thin line, put some mascara on to cover the ghastly blonde lashes, and run black lipstick over your lips. It stands in stark contrast against the pallor of your skin. It’s only then that you exit the mansion and stand outside the door, overlooking the falls. You wait patiently, arms crossed against your chest.
Preparing takes longer than you had anticipated - though you’ve divined her location and have scoped out an area that seems extremely near to her residence, you cannot accurately determine the locations of people you haven’t been in the physical presence of - people you haven’t touched, to be more specific. You’re not sure whether there will be people milling about out front or if her home is situated in a deserted wasteland. Regardless, you don’t wish to chance mussing her reputation by allowing her to be seen dealing with an odd creature from another planet, so you decide it may be better to just give off the appearance of a member of an odd culture instead. She may judge you for it, but it’s the least you can do.
The first thing that needs to go, of course, is the glowing. Application of foundation takes a while, as does the supplementary makeup - lips painted in lithographic black, eyes carefully lined and defined. Your outfit as it is now should be fine for tea, but you pull on a long, colorful robe and tug a hood over your head. Carefully, you slip a sleeve over your smooth horn to make it mirror the hooked one in appearance, then add a few trinkets to give the appearance of a headpiece rather than actual appendages.
You check the time - goodness, you’ve left her waiting for long enough. Focusing on the location you’ve selected, you bend down to touch your forehead to the floor, appearing in a bright selection of scenery without a sound or a single spark of light to announce your presence. Though you are used to the brightness in general, it is beginning to darken back at home - the sudden change in atmosphere is mildly disconcerting. You don’t spot anyone strange in the immediate vicinity and your dark eyes quickly zero in on your guest - you would recognize that bright hair anywhere.
You approach swiftly, leaving a swirl of colored linen and little clinks of baubles trailing in your wake. An inviting smile crosses your lips and you extend a hand to her, bowing just a bit. “You have my most humble apologies, Miss Lalonde. I did not mean to keep you waiting. I do hope you will forgive my social faux pas…”