Sombra Makes Coffee
. . .
I have found myself pondering again as of late —
“Chai tea: venti, non-fat, no foam, with almond milk. And could you make it quick? My break’s almost up.”
Despite my having come to a conclusion some time ago —
“I will have it prepared as fast as I am able. That will be five bits.”
Just when —
“Oh, and can I also have a biscotti? Wait, are those things made here? And when were they made? I like ‘em fresh and — oh, are they gluten-free?”
In my life —
“Our pastries are freshly baked in the kitchen each morning. They are then sealed in the display window to preserve quality. They are not gluten-free.”
Did everything begin to go wrong?
“So that’s a no to freshness. And not gluten-free, huh? What is gluten, anyways? Never mind. Just get me one of those and a, hmm… a croissant!”
I levitate the pastries into paper folds, carefully so as to not drop a single flake or crumb. From my peripheral I can see Ms. Manager nod, then retreat into her office. “Your total fee for the beverage and pastries is eight bits. I will call your number, sixty-two, shortly.” I would normally suggest that she wait beside the entrance or on the veranda, as there are cushions and low tables available for every guest’s comfort. I would then bid her good day, but looking past the customer I can see that the line is beginning to wind around the outer wall, so I choose to omit the pleasantries in favor of faster service.
The mare takes her meal but does not leave immediately, to my great annoyance. “Thanks, but can you get me just one more thing?”
I repress a sigh. “And what would that be, madam?”
“I want you to give me smile!”
I do not respond right away, for I require a moment to fully digest this customer’s order. As the seconds go by and I remain glaring at her expectant face, it becomes apparent that she is completely serious. Although it is my burden as an employee of Sol Café to ensure a quality experience for every customer, and even though it is commonly said in Equestria that smiles make everything better, I find it increasingly and justifiably difficult to contain my rage at such a request. If not for the ongoing problem of understaffing, which has forced me to shoulder the responsibilities of a cashier while also maintaining my familiar and more reclusive position as barista, I would not be in this predicament. But due to the suddenness of my increase in work I have not had the chance to be thoroughly trained for such a scenario, and I find myself unsure of what to do. Or rather, I know exactly what to do, yet I refuse to submit. My instincts urge me towards violence.
But then I remember the heaviest rule that was burdened upon me on employment; it now restrains me from appropriate action. I am to, as Ms. Manager once put it, ‘Do whatever it takes to please the customer. What. Ever. It. Takes.’ And so for the sake of upholding the café’s policies, and also for the prospect of a larger tip, I swallow what remains of my pride — the taste is more bitter than a poorly prepared espresso — and resolve to attempt the customer’s request.
“Of course, madam,” I say calmly as I give her a brief, practiced sneer.
She smiles back, eyes laughing. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“No.” Before she can attempt further conversation I turn away and walk to the counter. A coworker covers my section as I begin to prepare the customer’s order. The sound of her stammering over a simple welcome distracts me from my work and it takes me longer than necessary to make the tea, as irritated and meticulous as I am.
. . .
Eight hours later the sun is set. On this night I am tasked with closing shop and polishing the brewing machines before I am permitted my leave. Ms. Manager and the others have already left, leaving me in quiet solitude. Although my current tasks are outside of the usual expectations of a barista or cashier, I have convinced Ms. Manager — it must have been two months ago now — to pay me a bonus, measly sum in favor of hiring an extra hoof expressly to clean the machines. To be more specific, I am paid an extra five bits every night I close the shop.
That said I have already cleaned most of the brewers, all but one. This last coffee maker is the most important machine in the café. It appears to be a very large and strangely-shaped hourglass, but on further inspection one can clearly see that it is actually an intricate array of glass spheres, siphons, and metal designed in such a way that when activated and properly used is able to produce what is hailed as the boldest, most richly accented coffee in the region: the Smokey Mountain Iced, named after the place of origin of this brewing method. It takes several hours in order to produce just one liter and costs nearly twenty bits for one cup.
But cleaning the other coffee machines has left me feeling rather exhausted. Seeing how there is no one present to stop me I decide to pour some of the special coffee for myself. The machine has been inactive for some time now and only the dregs remain, but it is enough for a cup. What I am doing is against health safety regulations as the coffee has been sitting in room temperature for some time, and Ms. Manager would be gravely disappointed were she to catch me taking aught of the café’s resources without permission; but it is a free drink, and from the signature menu — I normally cannot spare any of my savings on such luxuries.
“Um, hey there, Ebon.”
“Ah. Yes. Well you are mistaken.” The response slips out before I can think of a more intelligent explanation for my rule-breaking. I turn around carefully and see that a pegasus mare stands at the entrance of the café. I recognize her but her name presently escapes me — though I am unsure of whether I ever knew it. She visits the café often, but I am remiss in memorizing the names of every regular as I usually address them by ‘sir’ or ‘madam.’ I could call her by her title, but in this time such a greeting is no longer popular. Perhaps I should have locked the doors beforehoof.
She blinks at me. “Mistaken? Oh, I’m sorry, but you look so much like him. I, uh, guess I’ll just be on my way then.”
“No, I am Ebon. How can I serve you, madam?”
“Huh? Oh, well then, hey again.” She flicks her ear, letting her mane down to, I presume, cover her smile. “And I thought the café was closed. The, uh, sign by the window says so. Right? Or am I wrong?”
“Correct. Bye then.”
“Wait! I-I mean, you’re leaving soon, right? And you live towards the Everfree? Well I’m heading home right now, and I was wondering if you’d like to join me? I mean, only if you want to. I wouldn’t be too disappointed if you said no, so, um, no pressure… But please say yes.”
“Yes, I do live towards the Everfree, but —” How does she know where I live? “I am not quite finished with closing the shop.” I turn my back to her and pick up a nearby rag. “It may take a while longer.”
“I don’t mind waiting. Not at all!”
With no reason or excuse as to why the mare cannot join me this night, I say “Well then, I accept your invitation. But as I said, I will be a while longer.”
“Okay, I’ll just be outside until you’re done then — wouldn’t want to distract you.” With that the mare smiles wide, makes a strange noise through her teeth and exits the café.
I say nothing as she leaves. When she is finally gone I down the coffee and return to my work. As the night goes on my exhaustion does not let up at all, and I begin to consider whether I am immune to the effects of caffeine. It is difficult to concentrate when my eyes are dry and tired, but I persevere by concentrating on the progressively brighter shine that my polishing brings to the surface of this coffee machine. All is going well — that is, until I notice something in the reflection of the glass. I ordinarily find solace in the satisfying results of my work, but tonight, at this moment, I am greatly unnerved. For in the reflection of the glass I can clearly make out a silhouette in the window by the entrance. The mare seems to be watching me.
She is still there by the time I am done with my work — about an hour or so after we last spoke. The mare stands up and follows me as I walk away from the café and down the street. We have barely stepped out of the plaza when I predict that it will be a very uncomfortable journey to my residence. My work uniform, a trim black vest, sticky with coffee and cream stains, pulls my coat and chafes me with every step. It is maddening. To minimize the itch and the possibility of a rash I begin taking wider steps, which serves me doubly as my pace is also quickened.
But more than my chafing uniform, what is truly bothering me is the company of this mare. She is presently several steps behind me and struggling, even using her wings, to match my speed. I have not forgotten her shape occupying the window earlier — rather, that was all that occupied my mind as I worked. I shifted my concentration to the reflection on the glass every so often to find that she was still watching me, and because of this I finished much later than intended. ‘Wouldn’t want to be a distraction,’ she said. Well.
But it would be unfair to distance myself from her for simply watching me — for all one knows she may have even been admiring me. Now, before I am unjustly criticized, allow me to explain how I am not arrogant in the least in this presumption. You see, stallions in general, for some reason or other, are far less present than mares here in Equestria. They often receive more attention because of this, and I am no exception — though I am in a different league from the common stallion besides. As the rightful king of the Crystal Empire I have within me only the very best blood of the oldest unicorn clans. My being is the result of centuries of critically selective breeding, and the current persona I display is very similar to my original form, aside from the averagely cone-shaped horn. Because of who I am — an able-bodied stallion with an immense magical capacity and, what strikes the attentions of most ponies, a powerful voice — it is common when a mare ogles me during the day.
And, as I consider her further, I may even benefit from the company of this mare. The distance to my home could be shortened if she and I were to, perhaps, engage in conversation: pass the time while trading banter and whatnot. But as we make progress I find it increasingly difficult to speak, or at least to be the first on to do so, for — I have no shame in admitting this — my social skills are rather outdated, and have always been lacking besides. Luckily, though, the mare has finally caught up to me and, most likely sharing my discomfort, begins speaking.
“So, uh, did you hear about the Wonderbolts derby from a few days ago? It’s been in all the papers.”
“No. I am not subscribed to any newspapers,” though I do occasionally borrow or purchase one, for the sake of keeping up with the times.
“Oh, well neither am I, but my friend, Rainbow Dash, was telling me about how Fleet Foot — that’s who Rainbow Dash was cheering for — was way ahead in first place for most of the laps. But then on the very last lap, Misty Fly swooped in and took the lead by a hair! The media’s dubbed it as the biggest upset since the race in… in… Um. Well anyways, isn’t that so interesting? Or… maybe not?”
It was hardly interesting, but I decide to humor her — it is the least I can do for her effort in starting our exchange. “Okay.” By giving an unrelated reply, such as ‘Okay,’ I have avoided answering her question and have also filled my due of the conversation. I would not have to exploit this colloquial loophole if the mare had simply offered a better topic for me to expand on. I am not even a pegasus, and I would think that most unicorns and even earth ponies did not care about what happened in a pegasus-only race. I certainly do not. Indeed, it was my wariness of this sort of failure that had prevented me from speaking earlier. My prudence was wise, as it often is.
“O… Okay? Um, is that a… never mind.”
She looks rather downtrodden by my response, so I offer, “Nice weather we’re having.”
Then suddenly the shy pegasus is beaming and prattling on about how during this Fall season the area is planned be much colder than usual and that I should probably wear heavier clothes than the vest that I have on. Because of this earlier Winter the birds will be migrating sooner than usual and the mammals will soon go into stocking frenzies for the coming snow, leaving the pegasus cold and lonely, she says to me while blinking very rapidly. I tell her to take her own advice and wear heavier clothes and also to consider making some pony friends, to which she responds with a stuttered agreement.
Our conversation dies off shortly afterwards. The mare is quiet now and treads along with a thoughtful expression, only passing me the occasional glance. Not wanting to speak any further I pretend I am alone and indulge in the quiet of the evening. The outskirts of Ponyville are quite scenic around this time. Moonbeam lights my path; shadows of trees and the occasional building line the side. Strangely there are few animals out and about; whether they can sense my power and have fled or are simply busy preparing for the coming winter as the mare said, I do not know. Their absence adds much volume to the hush of the night, and for the first time since my arrival I sense the full depth of my solitude.
Even after spending some seasons here I yet feel like a stranger to Equestria. I have tried veritably, and still am trying, to integrate into Equestrian society, but it has not become any less difficult over time. The reason being that aught concerning this quiet, little corner of the world is so — hmm, what is the word? Mundane. The carefree atmosphere of this hamlet tempts me to adapt and settle, but my ambition urges me towards something greater. Because of this I am stuck between contentment and regret. I wonder again for the umpteenth time what it was in my life that went so horribly wrong so as to stoop me down —
“Um, please stop!”
I halt and look behind me to see that the mare is standing beside some shrub-infested hovel. This must be her home.
“W-Well,” she begins, scuffing her hooves along the dirt. “If you ever need anything, just tell your good neighbor, Fluttershy. I’ll try to help you if I can, so really, don’t hesitate to come ask, okay?”
Ah yes, her name is Fluttershy. She seems hospitable, so I try my luck.
“Actually, I would ask a request of you now, Miss Fluttershy.”
“Oh? What is it?”
“As you can see, my work uniform is very dirty and in need of a wash.” She nods, urging me to continue. “But the cleaner is well over a mile away from where I live and most likely closed at this hour. Unfortunately I lack the proper equipment to clean it myself, so I was hoping if you would be so kind as to launder my uniform along with your own clothes?”
The mare begins to breathe very hard. I am confused and worry that perhaps I may have overstepped my bounds. But aught concerns are blown away by the excited smile she gives me as she says,
“Well I, um, don’t normally wash my clothes — I mean, that’s because I’m always naked! I’m not dirty, just naked all the time. B-But anyways, sure, I’ll clean your uniform for you!”
“Mm. Well, that is excellent and most appreciated.” I begin to undress, starting with the infernal buttons. I always seem to have trouble inserting or removing them from these flimsy, narrow loops. It is difficult and I consider different ways to go about this, but after some thinking I concede that simply — but actually quite strenuously — unbuttoning the vest is indeed my best option. My housemates, a family of twin sisters living in the same apartment as me, often assist me in my work preparations, so I am unaccustomed to doing or undoing my uniform alone.
After only a few seconds I feel the mare’s gaze upon me. I look to her and we make eye-contact before she turns away, yet I suspect that she is still watching me from her peripheral. Come to think of it, I do not think that she has released me from her sight for more than a few seconds since our meeting at the café earlier. It takes a moment longer but once the buttons are finally undone I quickly pull off the vest, which is an effort due to the viscous stains causing it to adhere to me like velcro material. Once the vest is off — along with a spot of my coat, damn it — I hold it unsurely. I am no longer comfortable with hoofing my uniform over to this peeping mare and consider imposing upon my housemates yet again. But I would much rather not…
Then unawares, Fluttershy slowly, carefully takes the vest from my hoof and cradles it against her bosom, as if it is aught precious. I merely watch, dumbfounded. The skin beneath my fur crawls as I absorb this image, and I am torn between gratitude and reluctance, leaning towards the latter.
Fluttershy tucks the uniform under her wing and smiles at me, looking quite satisfied. “I’ll take extra good care of it for you, I promise.” Well… she seems genuine enough, so I will myself to trust her.
“There is a good neighbor,” I say, forcing a smile. “When will it be done? I require it afore my next work day, which is —”
“Two days from now.”
“Ah… Indeed.”
“Okay. Okay, yeah, day after tomorrow! Don’t forget! Do you need me to remind you?”
“I will remember. Good night.”
As I turn away and make my leave I hear Fluttershy call after me, “I’ll see you then! Two days from now! Sweet dreams!” I quicken my pace.
When I am further down the road I look behind me to see if Fluttershy is still there. She is, briefly. It seems that before entering her home she has stopped to admire her garden and — hold. She appears to be wearing my work uniform. But… why? The manner in which her wings and legs share the cuts seems painfully uncomfortable, and it is not even cold in the least. The vest is dirty and sticky, and also, black does not suit her. So then what is the purpose of her wearing my uniform? The more I question it the more I consider demanding that she give it back — but I am disinclined to talk to the mare again so soon. I would most likely be irritated by this if my mind was not so addled. As I make my way further from Fluttershy’s cot I struggle to keep my mind off it. My vest is already in her possession and there is naught I can do but wait these two days. It would be better to forget what I have seen till then, lest worry plagues me; but perhaps in retrospect I will find this amusing. Or not.
As I continue on my way home I glance behind me several times to make sure that I am not being followed. To my relief, I am not.
I try to cleanse my mind of the incident. Over time the prospect of sleep begins to weigh on me more than memory, which is timely since it is ere long afore I arrive at the apartment complex where I live. I do not call it home — I predict that my stay here will be only temporary. The Meadowcrest Apartments: a tall, pale pink building on Nutella St. that houses a variety of ponies, from the spoiled youth who seeks independency to the covert war criminal. I climb up to the second floor and turn left, where my room is three doors down the left wall.
As I enter a sweet aroma invades my senses. I walk past the first bedroom; the door is open and the sisters are fast asleep. Further down the corridor is my own room; the door here is also open and looking inside I can see that my housemates have cleaned it again. How gracious of them. I follow the scent into the kitchen where I find a waldorf salad waiting for me. Excellent. After eating it and drinking from the faucet I go to the bathroom and prepare myself for sleep. When I am finished I go to my room and begin to unroll my sleeping mat — but then I realize that I am not terribly drowsy and will most likely spend an hour or so turning. I could benefit from an evening jog and decide to do so, set on spending the remainder of my energy. I leave the apartment quietly. Outside the night has gotten darker. Everything is calm. After all these months I still have not become accustomed to the stillness of it all.
As I follow the usual path I allow myself to reminisce about the Crystal Empire. In my prime I was never one to linger upon nostalgia, but I am now far past my wiser years, despite my youthful appearance. Most would call me ancient. It was once said that at the end of your time you were like to return to your origins; how ominous that sounds now, considering that the purpose of my savings is to afford a trip to the empire. Not many have visited there yet, but the few who have would most vividly recall the stretching tundra, range of penitentes, glimmering spires, and the enchanting, crystal-enchanted citizens. If one were to ask somepony else what they remembered about their trip to the Crystal Empire, they would most likely recite the items from my list.
But I remember it differently. That is to say, I recognize aught what most ponies do about the Crystal Empire, yes — but I remember the place for different reasons, for what they know as a tourist attraction, I know as my former home. It is difficult to contain the bitterness and longing in my heart when I think on it, and how far I have fallen. I often liken the disparity between my current living situation and the life taken from me to instant coffee and the Smokey Mountain blend. That is not a very good metaphor, but it serves.
I remember my home very clearly. My room especially. So large it was, but with few empty spaces between the furnishings. And despite its size it was always a comfort to be in there. Ah, the bed, how I miss it so. I remember how my beddings were full of only the softest downs, offered to me by my favorite pegasus and griffin concubines, and sewn together by the most renowned seamstresses. When it was made I remember how one of my lovers, a griffiness of snowy white, likened it to sleeping amidst the clouds. Funny, that one. But the frame that held it all aloft was not to be overshadowed, for it was built from the now extinct gloomwood, with intricate designs of my empire’s history carved into it and further decorated with a collection of embedded crystals. I remember, also, that in the far corner of my room, nestled beside my pony-sized vanity, was my closet. It was a walk-in model extending a league or so, where I stored naught but the finest garments and jewelry that any land at the time could offer. What I would sacrifice to have even one of my fine furs or armors back in my possession — though I would need to be mindful of Equestrian poaching laws.
But I remember now, having thought upon my concubines, that what made my home of crystal and ice so warm, and nostalgic now, was the company I shared in that room. After a long day of ruling it was always a pleasure returning to the embrace of my concubines. They had their own rooms of course, but they did so enjoy surprising me after noticing my prolonged absence on an especially busy day. Astrid, the snowy griffin I previously mentioned, would gather the other ladies and together they would prepare for my arrival. When I entered the room it would be all hugs and questions as to how my day went. All of them were so kind, so beautiful. I remember how together we would spend the summers lazing on the shaded balcony, tending to the hanging flora by the balustrade and eating fruits, which were very expensive and considered luxurious at the time. The tundra would be melted so there was the occasional picnic, though that was rare as one of the girls were sensitive and could not be exposed very long in the heat. In the winters we would huddle by the fire in the lounging room or stroll through the city to partake in the annual festivities. Many years were spent this way in the comfort of my family and home.
But now I share a two bedroom apartment with commoners. I do not mean to say that I dislike the company of the sisters; Cloud Chaser and Flitter are delightful, though it is difficult to follow the pace of their conversations at times. I enjoy them as my housemates; they are not the issue. The issue, to put it simply, is that I am feeling rather homesick. Homesick and heartbroken. And also helpless. Naught from my home has survived and all I own in this time are few essentials and memories. I am toiling, but how far can the wages of a mere barista take me? And even if I were to gain a substantial raise, I cannot simply buy back what I have lost.
Further along the outskirts of the village I stop at the bridge hovering over the wide river that borders Ponyville and the Everfree. Runner’s high ebbs and I feel the full brunt of my exhaustion settle upon me like a blanket. I collapse by the edge of this bridge and, not for the first time since my usurpation, contemplate suicide.
Author's Note
Preview of the next chapter: Sombra is surrounded by homosexuals.
Things are going to pick up from here on.
Comments are much appreciated.
