They were walking to the pub when The Dark One suggested howling at the moon. Laughing, they arched their necks and howled.
Later, when three of them were leaving, they howled a Goodbye and The Rebellious One (smoke trailing from her cigarette), howled in response.
Silently they climbed the hill, breath steaming in the cold air. A rainbow moon high above them, they slipped past houses they never could (or would want to) afford. Deer sometimes wandered onto the road here, no predators to threaten their docile roaming. Before they parted, The Sorrowful One begged for another howl. For the third (and final) time they howled, beside a mansion with a For Sale sign outside.
Inside, the estate agent stressed what a good, quiet, respectable neighbourhood this was, till the sound of eerie howling drifted through the front door. The potential buyers wondered what kind of neighbourhood tolerated Howling Women and decided, pointedly, to buy elsewhere.
As for the Howling Women? They had briefly turned into a pack of wolves, united in their adoration of the moon.
Barefoot Sociologist 