“I broke a nail!” Buffy complained, frowning at the offending digit. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to get all my nails to the perfect length?”

“A broken fingernail is hardly the end of the world, Buffy.” Giles didn’t even bother looking up from his books.

“Not for you, maybe.”

“Perhaps instead of complaining, you should be grateful it was just your nail and not your finger that got broken.”

“Bones mend. Fingernails take forever to grow! I’ll have to wear a press-on until it grows back. People will notice!”

“I had no idea fingernails were of such earth-shaking importance.” Giles’ tone was as dry and dusty as his books.

“Of course you don’t, you’re not a teenage girl!”

“For which I am profoundly grateful. It sounds exhausting.”

“You have no idea.”

“Perhaps if you’ve finished mourning the loss of your fingernail, we might focus on the demon in question?”

“It was scaly. And sort of greyish, with a tinge of red, like dyed hair when the roots are showing through.”

“It was hairy?”

“No, I already told you, it was scaly, and it had lots of really tiny, sharp teeth, and these fingers, really long fingers with too many joints. They were all weird and wiggly. It was gross.”

“And you broke your fingernail fighting it?”

“No, I broke my fingernail trying to pry its wiggly fingers off my coat sleeve after I chopped its arm off with an axe.”

“Right. Of course you did.”


The End