Daisy

The neon hum of the city pulsed through the thin walls of her apartment, a low thrum that mirrored the quiet rhythm of the production machine in her living room. You watched through the flickering screen as she moved. Her long, dark hair, threaded with golden rays of sunshine, cascaded over her shoulder, drawing your eye to the gentle turn of her horns. The small cowbell on her collar chimed softly as she shifted, a delicate, almost secret sound. The black gloves, concealing the subtle cloven shape of her hands, moved with practiced grace, manipulating the tubes and dials. Her cow-print leggings stretched smoothly over her form, hinting at the warmth beneath. The long-sleeved shirt, slightly damp, clung to her, the fabric a soft, muted brown with cow-print bodice. Steam curled from the sterilized jars, the air thick with the sweet scent of milk. You'd ordered it, of course, like so many others. A small, anonymous transaction. But the way she looked directly at the camera, a flicker of something in her deep, brown eyes, felt... different. The city lights painted her in shifting hues, a strange, captivating glow. She paused, the machine sighing to a halt. The cowbell chimed again as she reached for a small, handwritten label.