The Cafe Life

by Andy Grey

Rating: teen
Tags: Twilight Sparkle, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Other, Random, Slice of Life
Length: 1734

"It's all a simple equation, really. When you live alone with your studies, afraid of other ponies, like I am, you realize that strange actions are only strange, to ponies that aren't strange."

"It's all a simple equation, really. When you live alone with your studies, too afraid of other ponies to leave your home, like I do, you realize that strange actions are only strange to ponies that aren't strange."

Cafes provide lots of things for Twilight Sparkle: Coffee, peace and quiet, nice conversation. Most would call Twilight's cafe visits strange, but she thinks they are necessary.

...

I wrote this short sort-of-vignette in one sitting.

Warning, this story contains:
-Mild sexual innuendos and one necrophiliac 'joke'.
-Slightly-darker-than-average Equestria (though no dark tag, so that is good, right?)
-Depressed, despairing Hayseed Turniptruck (from that one Rarity episode that I can't remember the name of with the window washer)
-A healthy amount of parenthesizes
-Words!

Proofread by TheEarthSheep

Published 2013-11-15 00:20:03 UTC
Last updated 2013-11-15 00:20:03 UTC

You Are So Flippin' Boring, Twilight!

The Cafe Life

A vignette, of sorts.

        (...)Detective Spark channeled the magic in his horn, sweeping the area around the body for clues. It was a young pegasus mare, barely old enough to hover. She had been killed in an alleyway. Garbage containers, broken bottles, litter and disposed furniture practically flooded the area. Finding the murder weapon, not to mention any sort of valid evidence, was going to be murder in this area. Each pony that searched the crime scene saw it from a different angle, and with a victim as high profile as White Opal, it was important that they brought in several detectives.

“Twilight?”

        (...)He stooped low, grimacing as the stench from the body flooded his nostrils. “Yo, Grim, what do you make of these marks on her neck?” Grim, the forens-

“Twilight, please!”

        (...)Grim, the forensic pony in charge, turned from his conversation with a subordinate, and walked towards Light Spark with his brow furrowed.

I tore my eyes from the sentence, trying hard to act as if I hadn’t heard him. “Hmm, did you say something?”

Spike rolled his eyes and drew a (thankfully dull) index claw across the café table, staring at me pointedly. “I said, ‘I’m going home’. You are so boring, Twilight, always just reading. I wish we could do something else sometimes.” He jumped off the chair. “I’ll have your notes about variations of levitation magic sorted by the time you get back, so don’t worry about that. Just try and come home in good time fo –”

I nodded, returning my gaze to the page, letting the sound of his voice fade, until it was barely a whisper.

        (...)walked towards Light Spark with his brow furrowed. “Those are bite marks Spark, as you would know if you had been listening when I told the team,” Grim said, as he stretched the skin to better show the tooth marks.

“So this ‘vic’, she died several weeks ago, right? I mean, I haven’t heard anything yet, but that smell is outrageous, man.”

Grim frowned, regressing to a flowing musical Scottish accent, as he did so often when he was angry. "Just do your bucking job, Spark. I'll have you read the forensics synopsis... in graveyard shift."

Spark lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed. He was going to work a late night anyway.

Chapter 5: Redemption

I grunted and closed the book shut, but not before earmarking the page. I allowed myself a smile as the absence of my assistant sunk into my prose-frozen brain. I brought my head, hard, upon the book, lavishly titled:

 Lightning Spark, Prime Detective: Maniacal Murdererer

The book was bad, but the title was worse. I hated when ponies noticed me reading the series, because I had to act like I was genuinely interested in its badly-written, boring, foreseeable plot twists.

Truth was, it was just a distraction. Distraction from nothing. Distraction from everything. Distraction from how empty everything was: Perfect grades, clean coat, and purple and red straight hair, can I get a 'woohoo' for mediocrity? I brought the side of my muzzle up to the mug of coffee I had ordered two chapters ago, and pressed against it, hungry for its warmth. Its heat-insulating, biodegradable material felt almost like skin.

It was weird, but when you live alone with your studies, afraid of other ponies, like I am, you realize that strange actions are only strange to ponies that aren't strange. The coffee had a nice temperature, and there was no one around that knew me well enough to judge me. For all they knew, I was mentally handicapped, and had found myself with a compelling urge to touch the mug. One of these statements was true, but I struggled to decide which applied to me. Maybe both.

The tables around me were filling up fast, good-looking business ponies in suits and ties, and young ponies with too much money to burn, were seating themselves for sandwiches, hayfries, and coffee. One pony had ordered soup, he probably considered himself the healthy type.

I knew what was coming. Objectively, I was good looking, so at this time, flirtatious stallions would usually seat themselves at my table. I wagged my tail a little in anticipation, brushing it against the thin metal bars of my chair. I pushed out my lower lip and did my best to stare at the candle in front of me with a sultry look.

Why the candle? Interesting you should ask. I’d done an observational study, and I could refute the null hypothesis (that the candle had no effect on the rate of interested males approaching me, compared to simply looking at the table) at a 95% confidence level. I didn’t understand it, but I don’t argue with statistics.

As soon as I saw one eyeing me, I flipped the book up so that the cover was clearly visible from his perspective, and started reading it with a bored 'please talk to me, you might get laid' expression. This accomplished two things: It gave the stallion a conversation starter (the book, dolt) and made me more approachable. Of course, he wasn't getting lucky off of me in my lifetime (sworn asexual, and proud). Nervous shivers ran down my spine and I smiled, amused, as I thought about how he might get lucky off of me after my lifetime.

I looked up at him, as if I had just noticed him, as he pulled out a chair. "You want to sit here?" I asked.

He quickly (a little too quickly), chuckled, and stopped the chair. "Uh, yeah. I mean... You don' mind, do ya?"

I looked him over, slowly. He wore a working man's hat and had long uncut hair. His t-shirt had a comic strip with a masked avenger beating down some generic villain, dressed in a bright red costume. Clearly a student still, and of average intelligence, but maybe he would make for interesting conversation. His teeth were crooked enough, and his mane unkempt enough, that I was willing to bet he would buy me another sweet, warm, comforting cup of coffee if I allowed him to sit.

"I don't suppose I see any harm in that," I said, smiling at him, "I don't have money for another coffee, though,” at this point I frowned, contemplatively, for just about a second, before continuing, “So you’ll probably have this table aaall to yourself in a second, anyway."

I felt my innards clench in excitement from trying to cheat someone I had barely met of his money, before I pointedly levitated the cup towards myself, and drained its rapidly cooling dregs like a Stalliongrad factory worker drains his third shot glass. I made sure to give him a playful sideways glance in the process.

"Weeell..." I chirped playfully, making a move to stand up, "It was nice meeting you, Mister...?"

"I can buy you a drink!" he blurted out, his cheeks quickly flushing when he realized how his request (because this was a cry for help, let me tell you) came off. His ears flattened against his skull as he repeated, this time quieter to avoid attention from the nearby tables, "I could buy you a drink, if you want. I just made my first paycheck washing windows, and I really have nowhere else to spend it." His posture righted itself as he made a move to pick up the empty cup and take it to the trash. "And it's Turniptruck, Hayseed Turniptruck."

I kept up my chipper facade, chuckling as I let him take my cup to a nearby trash bin. "Thank you so much, Hayseed. It's not often I get treated like this."

...

It's all a simple equation, really. Ponies need attention. Turnip-boy and I both need it. I don't get any of it conventionally because I’m a highly gifted unicorn in Celestia's school for gifted unicorns.

In order to solve the equation, so that I can get my attention, I need to know what variables other ponies are composed of. What do I need to input, in order to get pony... output? Well, for a mare, that question is complicated. There are way too many variables to ever be able to solve the equation. It would take a mathematical (and social) genius! And while I am smart, I just don't have the time to care for all of the little things that marefriends expect from me. Stallions are simpler, easier. They only require two variables, an attractive, approachable mare, and a chance at ending up in her bedroom. Sometimes, they know that they can only get the first, but still, hormones will bring them to me. That’s why I choose stallions as my main source of this craved attention. They have lower input values and higher outputs, clean and simple.

...

When Hayseed came back to my table I pretended to be engrossed in my book, and I pretended not to notice as he placed the drink in front of me, making sure that I looked sufficiently interested in my book.

"That's the Prime Detective books, isn't it?" Turnip asked, as he seated himself opposite myself.

I look up at him, smiling, painfully aware of his terrible grammar. Usually it doesn't bother me when ponies are just speaking, because, honestly? Mistakes happen, even for Twi Light Sparkle, personally tutored in commas and proper syntax by the big, OG Sun God herself. But this pony was getting on my nerves already.

For the sake of conversation, I answer politely. "Oh, yeah. You've read these as well? I just started, but I'm already almost caught up in them!"

...

It doesn't really matter how trivial the conversation is, I always feel better afterwards. I'm really not caught up in these books, but it’s easier to talk to him if we share at least one interest. He tells me nervously about the superhero on his shirt, and I pretend to be fascinated. He pays my bill, I tell him that he is an amazing stallion and that I don't ever meet anypony else like him. But I do, almost every day. I give him a phony address, tell him to stop by so we can talk about comics and other stuff, and I leave. I feel refreshed, caffeinated, and ready to do the thirteen-page essay Celestia assigned for the next day.

No harm done.

...

… Right?