Pony Play

You walk into Ponyville, naked but for the bucket and its jingling contents. You explain to the blacksmith what you need. He flicks his ears uneasily, but takes your measurements and your bits, and tells you to return in two days.

You walk back towards the edge of town. You've never walked here before without her, and you remember:

With Fluttershy leading the way, the townsfolk are strangely accepting of you. A few stares at first, a few glancing, indirect questions, and you are friends. They talk a lot about the weather, with the sincere interest of farmers. It tortures you. Every time you see a pony, all you want to do is throw your arms around its neck, gurgle baby-talk at it, and scratch it between its ears. Every time. Like a terrible itch that you may never scratch.

Letting on that you could talk was your mistake, you realized after a few days. If you had followed Fluttershy mutely, like a pet, you could’ve gotten away with anything. You did not ask for their opinions about the proper number of inches of rain and the right kind of soybean for this soil and climate. You had more than enough conversation on Earth.

She, likewise, already has enough pets. She has friends, too, and the pressure of their expectations is already great. So the two of you contend fiercely yet gently for the position of pet. During the day, doing the rounds among the animals, or walking through the town, you’re winning. On her turf, in her world, she must walk before you. At night, her impotent need forces you into the role of master.

You wonder what injuries she's sustained that make even the light brush of a friendly gaze painful, and whether they’re like your own. You don't ask, and don't tell. You stand side-by-side, not so close as do the ponies in town, each secure in the knowledge that the other won't press too hard on old wounds, won't tear off the bandages to see what's underneath. You each bask in the uncomplicated companionship of one who doesn't know what they're expected to expect from you. She is your terrycloth bathrobe, you are her fuzzy slippers. If this isn't love, it’s a comfortable compromise.

The weeks and months with Fluttershy mute the bright colors and drain the novelty until it’s your new normality. Something you could’ve been grateful for, if it had come at the right time. You wonder if this is what people mean by a happy ending.

You make a private trip into town and endure the questioning gaze of the purple librarian in order to consult the dictionary:

happy (adj): Sense of "very glad" first recorded late 4c. Old Equine eadig (from ead "wealth, riches") and gesælig, which has become silly. Meaning "greatly pleased and content" is from 520s. Old Equine bliðe "happy" survives as blithe. From Hipponian to Neighrish, a great majority of the equine words for "happy" at first meant "lucky." An exception is Zebrican, where the word used first meant "wise."

You aren’t a zebra, so you conclude that you are happy. Content seems closest. But there’s something contained, contracted, contrived about that word. Blithe sounds more free.

The rabbit is back, many nights, a quivering, unsleeping white bundle at the foot of the bed. Fluttershy smiles at you more in friendship than in wonder. This, you realize, is also normal. Mature. Halfway to responsible. Happy.