The room smelled of polished wood, freshly laundered sheets, aged vinyl records, and spent semen.
As she came down, Spitfire thought of the album that was playing: You're Loving All Over Me by Ponysaur Jr. A very old record, even older than Spitfire herself. But, while this was true, it was something Spitfire listened to on repeat when she was a just a teenager (the thought of becoming a Wonderbolt merely an aspiration), and like nearly every other album she liked from that period in her life, she kept coming back to it.
"Mmm," she mumbled.
She buried her sweat-caked face in the covers of her bed, as if wanting to smother herself with them. She occasionally dreamed of dying pleasantly, in a state of afterglow which much resembled her current situation. She could also hear Soarin breathing not far from her; actually, he was lying only a few inches from her, the hairs of his coat almost touching her own. The physical closeness was maybe too familiar by now
They had been exhausted, these middle-aged bodies of theirs. A part of Spitfire's mind already regretted the decision to put her form to the test in such a way, in spite of the orgasm; it seemed almost demeaning, to seek out an adrenaline rush like this, like a junkie aching for a quick fix.
It seemed like a reasonable thing to do—to have sex in the afternoon, on a weekday. Neither of them had anything planned, or rather there was nothing for them to plan in the first place.
The conversation that initiated the coupling went like this:
"Feel like rutting after lunch?"
"Yeah, sure."
Not too romantic, or even exhilarating.
When Spitfire and Soarin were much younger, in the most passionate stage of their relationship, there was a childish excitement in Soarin's seed leaking from Spitfire's vulva, and the milky liquid staining the sheets; it was something that appealed more to one's imagination than the reality of the situation. Eventually this same occurrence would become a minor inconvenience. Getting older, Spitfire realized, meant that she had to clean up her own messes.
Being retired, much like being old, meant that cleaning up one's mess meant about as much as causing the mess in the first place; or rather, both had become equally banal.
"Hey," said Soarin, nearly in a whisper. "Should we go get a massage at some point? I've always wanted to... y'know... get my joints in order." Spitefire could hear her boyfriend (and most trusted colleague) stretch out his limbs in an agonized fashion.
Tt took what seemed like hours for Spitfire to say anything, leaving a void of silence and grungy rock music being played at low volume. She didn't like to say anything while still in the ecstatic aftermath of a good rut, and back in the good old days it would have indeed taken a long time for her to say something; but her stamina was no longer what it used to be.
"Never had one myself," she finally said, already sounding melancholic, the afterglow fading.
"Not even wings?" said Soarin.
"Nah." Spitfire had always looked down on massages and manicures, things she had gladly done without for over twenty years, but at her current age she couldn't help but sometimes contemplate what good a massage would've done.
And it was at this point that she started to feel her age again. She wondered if mares her age went out and got themselves prettied up far more often than they rutted. It was a peculiar train of thought, to at some point value having one's hooves taken care of by a specialist more than the intimate company of one's special somepony. Was this normal? Then again, Spitfire did not expect to lead a normal life. It was not even like she could have foals and restart her life as a mother—although she was never a fan of that option, even if she had it.
"This sucks," she said aloud, in her usual raspy tone.
"Huh?" said Soarin, on the verge of passing out.
Slowly, painstakingly, Spitefire turned onto her back, her wings retracting, and said, "Every time we do this, I feel like I'm trying to dodge something. Like, for example, for a while there I thought I was having fun." She smiled bitterly at that.
"But..." Soarin's mind wandered a bit. "Weren't we having fun?"
"Sure," resting her head on Soarin's barrel, "but only for a little bit. It was like—like I thought I was somepony else for a second there, in a different body and all that crap. Like I had gone back in time to a younger version of myself, but my younger self was somepony else. What's that called, an out-of-body experience? Something the unicorns made up, and I thought they were full of it for a while there, but they might be right."
After trying to make his neck not feel so stiff, all Soarin could say was, "Weird."
"I don't really know what to make of it myself," said Spitfire, "but I've been thinking about it a lot lately. This feeling I've got. I didn't used to get like this, all sad and crap after a roll in the hay." She raised her eyebrows skeptically. "Did I?"
"Nah."
"And at the same time," she continued, "I could've sworn I went out more, back in the day. And now I don't. I haven't even talked to Rainbow in a couple weeks, and that just sounds wrong."
"It does," Soarin agreed. "I kinda understand. I think?"
Spitfire kissed her boyfriend's belly and up his chest, as more of a gesture than anything. "Try not to think about it too hard," she said. "I know I try to not overthink it."
Some minutes passed.
"Hey," said Soarin. "We should start traveling around, ya know? Go sight-seeing without having to worry about schedules and all that. We're free to go anywhere."
"We've already been everywhere," said Spitfire, both to Soarin and to herself.
"Oh..."
The two stayed together in a warm and yet unloving embrace. They had each other, and that seemed to be enough for the moment; each other was all they seemed to have anyway. The atmosphere had gone quiet, and stale, with the punk rock music from so long ago playing until there was chilly silence—that terrifying second at the end of a vinyl side where all the world appeared to stand on a tightrope of fuzz.
The record had, inevitably, reached its conclusion.
Spitfire sort of felt like taking a nap.
Stretching every limb, she got off the bed and went for the record player. "Got any music in mind?" she asked.
"Not sure," murmured Soarin.
Spitfire wasn't sure either.
