Magnum Opus

“GET. OUT.”

The morning was punctuated by two words. Ones he hoped wouldn’t haunt him the rest of his life. Seeing his belongings tossed out onto the street, hastily filled with possessions and levitated in the magenta grip of his wife's magic, quickly brought him to terms with exactly how much trouble he was in. His wife slammed the front door, its force shaking the doorframe, which showed exactly how angry she was. Worst of all, she definitely had every reason to be.

He thought back to last night.

Actually, ‘night’ wasn’t technically accurate. More like early morning, given that when he arrived home it was around four o’clock. Delirious, the effort to stay awake swayed him side to side as he walked down the lane. The taxi peeled off, hooves and wheels clattering over the cobblestone. Of course he’d been careful. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this. He made sure the driver dropped him a few blocks away. He wasn't stupid enough to get out in front of his own house: that was just asking for trouble. Besides, he figured the fresh air would be good for him.

The sound of victory was an empty wrapper crinkling in his breast pocket as he trotted along. It no longer held the condom he'd left the house with. In addition to the fun it had provided, it also found purchase for a piece of paper with a mare’s number. That night’s debauchery flared in his mind. A sweaty, plush ass brushing against his crotch, the moans of pleasure, the uninhibited bucking of a younger mare: it was good. It was worth it. He kept repeating that mantra, as if those feelings could allow him to justify it. The terrible thing he’d done. If she ever found out… Well, he would make sure she would never.

Unlocking the back door and sneaking through the kitchen, he evenly distributed his weight across the creaky wooden steps that lead up to the second floor. Each hoof-fall came lightly, as he eased his weight onto each step before placing a limb next to it. He even made sure to skip the especially noisy step about half way up, thinking how ironic it would be to be done in by the step he'd refused to fix for his wife earlier. Finally, he made it to the top. Spying the bedroom, he began to open the door, telekinesis rotating the handle delicately trying to make as little noise as possible. A second later, a sliver of light barreled toward him from the inside.

Light. A foreboding sign he was screwed.

There’s no way she could be awake at this hour.

But sure enough, opening the door the rest of the way revealed his wife, still awake. The fur near her eyes; desperately matted. Anxiety over where he was, what he was doing... Last weekend it was drinking with his buddies, the time before that he had met up with an old friend. This time he thought an emergency might do. He hadn’t used that yet. On his way home maybe he stopped to help a mare to the hospital or call an ambulance cause a stallion having a heart attack. The details weren’t important, so long as he could prolong this interrogation. Because if he could make it till sunrise routine would kick in. Breakfast. Lunch packing. Chores. Going to pick up that new drapery they'd ordered Thursday. As long as it was enough time for her to think it over and forgive him. Allow him to put on a face and tell her everything was okay.

But it wasn’t okay. Not this time. Or the other times either, it’s just that in the past they had a fight and then things would go back to normal. She would say things and he would remind her those were just some accusations and that she had no proof. Things would get loud and he'd drop a line like "let's not wake up the whole neighborhood." He stood in the entrance to their bedroom, assuming she'd say something. Some time passed before he realized there was no fight to come.

No argument, just unnerving silence. No anger, or tears either. Now he was far out of his comfort zone, as only heavy breathing and glaring persisted. The worst purgatory he could imagine, those accusing eyes, while he stood there, waiting for the insults, the petty accusations. How much he missed them now. He admitted silently there was some redemption to be found in getting chewed out by his wife. It felt like he was taking on some form of punishment. Like the berating lectures were penance for the next time he'd inevitably cheat again. In their absence, he would have taken any amount of punishment to help absolve the weight he felt from his sins. As long as he was acknowledged. Excuses wouldn’t work. It had gone beyond that now. All that was left was for him to beg.

“Please?”

The single word fell in the vacuum between them, trying to bridge the gap caused by this fresh cut in an old wound. But it never made it. Already a hoof extended outward, pointing back the way he came. Directing him to return to whatever it was he truly loved. Their eyes never met. She only tolerated him long enough for him to somberly shove some of his belongings toward him she'd packed into a suitcase. Shirts piled randomly on top of one another, a wrinkle in each as furrowed as her expression. Hastily she tossed it out and shoved him after it. Like trash. No goodbye, no hesitation of remorse.

The bedroom door slid shut. With nowhere else to go, he resigned to leave. Now a walk outside in the brisk morning didn’t seem to do much good. A clear mind only meant seeing the events of minutes ago over and over again rather than the pleasures of the previous night. A bitter morning after pill.

Mist blanketed the streets of Ponyville as he aimlessly trudged forward, teasing him by so easily obfuscating the world around him. If only he'd been as skilled in language as the nature of fog. Subconsciously he was thinking of what he could do, but knew there was really only one place he could go. It was selfish to harbor such an expectation, but she was the Element of Generosity. At any rate, it would only be a temporary solution.

The hours on the sign posted by the door read ten to eight but were ignored in favor of a harsh knocking. The flat of a hoof connected with the paneling causing a reverberating hollow banging throughout the open atrium that served as the interior of Carousel Boutique. At first: nothing. Then, a light switched on in one of the windows of the upstairs bedroom. Hopefully a pony shape was moving around up there. He banged again to assure her that it was not, in fact, a dream.

Mornings never really agreed with Rarity. More often than not she found there was nothing she’d rather do on a Sunday than laze about under the covers until either the afternoon sun shone so bright it forced her awake or she felt the need to indulge in brunch. As a socialite it was always of the utmost importance to ensure an adequate amount of beauty sleep. This week had been so busy, Rarity felt perhaps even ten or twelve hours wouldn't do the trick. Many hours of rush orders had caught up with her and were beginning to take their toll. And, as much as she appreciated parties, Rarity admitted that perhaps she'd overdone it a tad by attending that fashion premier Friday as well as the party last night... Loath as she was to admit, she was no longer at the peak of youthful brilliance. She doubted that even in her rowdier days she'd be able to handle back to back four o'clock bedtimes. Especially after what had happened last night. She rolled onto her side to checked time. Six o'clock. Perhaps it was a dream. Maybe Opal had just knocked over a chair downstairs. Or another party goer had made a worse decision than she had; having to endure a walk of shame.

Bam. Bam. Bam.

Or maybe not. Fumbling with a hairbrush, Rarity made an attempt to lash her curls into their distinctive shape, a few loose ends still managing to elude her. It pained her to have to skip applying makeup, so she fussed briefly with powder and mascara until she was somewhat presentable while whoever it was continued pounding away on the door. Slightly louder each time they began their pattern of three knocks. As annoying as it was, the pony at the door was awfully persistent. And about to get an earful.

The banging started up again.

“Alright, I’m coming!” It wasn’t very ladylike, but her composure had lost itself somewhere between the fourth drink last night and the first yawns of this morning. Moving to the door Rarity slid back the deadbolt and then twisted open the latch. “So what in Tartarus is so important it couldn’t wait until…”

She broke off as the hinges peeled back to revealing a familiar sight. A mustachioed stallion stood opposite, his coat roughly the same hue as hers. Next to him a sat a tan travel bag bulging with from a haphazard packing job. Three footballs were emblazoned on his flank.

“Dad?”