In a Cello Mood

Dear Diary,

It… could have gone better. Sure, it could have gone worse, but then again, it could have gone better. I thought we’d have some clarity, Beauty and I. But we still don’t. The confrontation was… far from pleasant. Not long, not rough, not loud… but unpleasant. But I think it was inevitable. Somepony once said: “Everything is inevitable; otherwise it wouldn’t have happened at all.” I think that’s true, to some extent.

But what surprised me was how my day began. I must admit that, while I consider Vinyl bold, I never saw the more… entrepreneurial side to her. She has always struck me as a passionate musician (less so a performer, considering that she hasn’t landed a single gig since we have begun dating), but never as a businessmare. Yet, her idea from today’s morning made me reconsider my opinion…

***

“We’re going commercial.”

Octavia blinked, turning halfway to the white mare, while munching on her breakfast. Disregarding any semblance of good manners, she mumbled with food in her mouth: “What.”

Eleanore tsked disapprovingly and passed a napkin to her daughter. “Here, sweetie, don’t chew and talk.”

I get it, Mom… Octavia swallowed her food and pointed her hoof at Vinyl, half-accusingly. “What do you mean, we’re going commercial?” The hoof tapped the grey chest. “You and me? We’re selling something?”

“Miss,” Jeffrey interrupted, pouring some more tea into the mare’s mug, “may I make an observation regarding pointing one’s hoof at other ponies?”

Octavia cast a glare at the everpresent butler. “No, you may not.” Turning to Vinyl, she continued, “Vinyl, explain yourself.” Sensing that it sounded like an order, she added, “Please.”

“I don’t mean us, love,” Vinyl said, making Octavia blush at the form of addressing: many weeks had passed, and she was still chilled to bits about Vinyl calling her pet names. “I mean Neon and me. We’re thinking of selling our first single we’ve made together.”

“You…” Octavia blinked. “You actually made something?”

Vinyl narrowed her eyes. “Yes, we did. If I don’t share my music with you, it’s just because you don’t have a stereo system to play it with.”

Octavia blushed again. “I, uh, I have a radio.”

“Well, radio is in the plans too,” Vinyl confirmed gleefully, “but for now we just want to record a single that would go on vinyl.” The mare puffed her chest proudly. “We’ll call it… The Vinyl Lights!”

Silence fell upon the room. Eleanore smiled and looked away. Jeffrey coughed into his hoof and shook his head. Octavia facehooved.

Vinyl coughed. “It’s a working title! Anyway,” she carried on, “I think that we have material for a single. And we don’t even have to record it at the studio.”

“Of course you don’t,” Octavia muttered under her breath, “It’s cause you use samples and not real instruments.” She nibbled on her toast, still paying close attention to her marefriend.

The spinner carried on: “We just need to find somepony who will ‘publish’ our single, so to speak. Record it onto a vinyl record, make the package, somepony who will draw the cover art. Then we’ll sell it and make bits!” The white pony smiled radiantly.

Octavia sincerely, truly, honestly didn’t want to break Vinyl’s little surge of happiness, but she had to intervene. “Vinyl…” she said very gently. “Sell to whom?” She waved her hoof around in the air. “It’s not like you have a lot of fans.”

Vinyl narrowed her eyes once again. Twenty percent narrower! a rainbow-maned pony in Octavia’s head exclaimed. “Neon does. And, just as a piece of information, I already asked the ponies from the faculty if they would buy our single, and more than twenty said they would. Adding Neon’s fans, it will grant us over a hundred potential buyers.” Vinyl’s horn glowed as she levitated a mug of coffee to her lips, taking a sip. “Worst case scenario, half of the ponies won’t buy it. That still leaves us over fifty.”

“You…” Octavia looked at the mare with newfound respect. “You actually estimated risks?” She stood up and walked to Vinyl, poking her shoulder with a hoof. “You can do that? Who are you and what have you done with my marefriend?”

Vinyl laughed, pecking Octavia on the nose. “Silly Tavi, I am not all loops and mixtapes.”

Octavia kept looking at her mare, suspicion crawling into her mind. “You aren’t?”

Vinyl couldn’t bear it any longer, throwing her hooves around the mare and dragging her onto the cushion next to her. “Tavi, relax. We have estimated the risks. We’ll work on a prepayment basis, we disclaim warranties, and it’ll be a no-return, no-refunds deal.”

“Can you do that?” Octavia asked suspiciously. “Can you disclaim all warranties?”

“Well,” Vinyl replied, “there are some warranties that can’t be disclaimed, like merchantability… Seriously, haven’t you been listening to Professor Dan?”

“Huh?” Octavia blinked in surprise. “I have, but he was reading Intellectual Property Law.”

Now it was Vinyl’s turn to blink in astonishment. “What? To us, he was reading Sales Law.”

“There is no such thing as Sales Law,” Octavia whispered, placing her weary head on Vinyl’s shoulder.

“Yes, there is.” Vinyl kissed her marefriend’s forehead, eliciting a sigh from the grey mare and a smile from Eleanore. “And I guess we need it more than posh classical musicians.”

“Har har har,” Octavia grumbled, nuzzling into Vinyl’s fur. “Look who’s a businessmare now.”

“Yes.” Vinyl tried to toss her hair - which, in reality, was a laughable attempt, considering her manedo. “I have the enter- entre- entp- I am a cool businessmare, okay?”

Octavia giggled and kissed the mare on the cheek, no longer embarrassed about showing her feelings for the sweet DJ, who had somehow turned out to have the entrepreneurial spirit. “Never change, Vinyl. You are the best marefriend ever.”

“Aww!” Vinyl poked Octavia’s belly playfully, eliciting a tiny yelp from the grey mare. “Somepony’s getting sentimental~”

“I am just pushing back the inevitable,” Octavia lamented, getting up and stretching her limbs. “And, before you get any sombre ideas, I’m talking about visiting Beauty and getting some work done.”

A grin slowly appeared on Vinyl’s face as the white pony got ideas that were not sombre at all, but rather more… passionate. “We can always have a three-”

“Vinyl,” Octavia hissed audibly, pointing with her head towards Eleanore. “Will you try not to embarrass me before my own mother?”

“Oooh.” Vinyl pondered for a moment. “I’ll just say menage a trois then.”

Octavia facehooved, while Eleanore merely chuckled and got up from the table, helping Jeffrey with the plates towards the sink. “My mother speaks Prench.”

“Mmm, come on, Tavi, I can show you my… Prench techniques.” Vinyl licked her lips sensually, fluttering her eyelashes at the cellist. “I guess it’s my…” Don’t! a little pony in Octavia’s head warned. “Native tongue.”

Octavia didn’t even facehoof. Instead, she sighed and drew the white mare close. “What about going to Beauty’s?”

“Oh,” Vinyl chuckled, “I’m sure that can wait until the evening.” She leaned over and whispered into Octavia’s ear: “I’ll go get the riding crop.”

Octavia’s cheeks immediately turned a fine shade of pink. “O-oh! Well, that, that certainly, uh!” She gulped. “That definitely changes things. Evening it is, then!”

***

“May I come in?”

Beauty shrugged, stepping aside to let the grey mare inside, and closed the door behind them. Trotting to the far side of the room, she stood at a distance, as if she were afraid of getting hurt - or hurting somepony? Her eyes, Octavia noted, were dull but curious. And so insanely beautiful.

“So, uh, how is it going?” Octavia shifted in place uneasily, looking around the room idly, her gaze falling on an abstract painting on the wall: several squares, black, grey, and white, entwined by line that ran like seams through the shapes, tying them together. And that’s art for you, the grey pony thought. It’s like explaining art has become art in itself nowadays. She immediately chided herself for such thoughts. Who am I to judge art anyway? I don’t even have a degree yet!

“It goes.” Beauty kept standing in place, staring lifelessly at Octavia, and, it seemed, through Octavia. “Octavia, what do you want.” Her tone fell flat on Octavia’s ears, making the cellist cringe inside.

“I thought it would be a good idea to work on our project,” the grey pony attempted amicability, taking a step towards the blue mare. “We already have some drafts so we can work from there.”

Beauty didn’t step back, but her tone was bland, joyless, plain and a little torn. Octavia would have preferred coldness, even a yell, but all she got was a thin, “No, we don’t. We don’t have drafts.”

“What do you mean,” Octavia said slowly, trying to both process the situation and not let emotions get the best of her, “we don’t have drafts?”

“I lost them,” Beauty lied with disregard and dispassion.

“You…” Octavia paused, choosing her wording carefully. “You destroyed our drafts in a rage, didn’t you,” she realised, feeling nothing but compassion for the vocalist. “Beauty, it’s all right. I am not angry with you, I just-”

“I don’t care.” Evilness entered Beauty’s tone as her eyes narrowed automatically, little icicles froze on her lips, but, in a moment, she was back to her hollow, empty state. “I don’t care,” she repeated. “I don’t want to work on the project. I don’t want to talk to you. Please leave.”

“I will not leave until I know you’re all right,” Octavia said lamely, knowing very well, yes, knowing, even though not admitting to herself, that there was this worm of guilt chewing on her, that she didn’t want to be here, that she only cared for the project, that Beauty’s well-being wasn’t important to her, that… “I don’t want you to do something stupid. Because it’s partially my fault,” she lied, “I mean, turning you down.”

Beauty didn’t even sigh. “We both know it isn’t your fault. Go.” She pointed at the door. “Don’t worry, I won’t commit suicide. I am too exhausted to do even that.”

Octavia shifted in place uneasily, then took another tentative step towards the vocalist. “Beauty…” she began, trying to smile just a little, but not too much, lest the blue mare take offence. “Life is much like this painting you have on the wall: there are black parts, and white parts, and grey parts. They are all intertwined, and they form life. You just have to look at it that way.” Great, and I thought I was getting somewhere with this.

Beauty pointed at the door. “Octavia, please leave.”

Octavia sighed, looked at Beauty one more time and walked out into the slowly setting evening.

***

I can’t even say that was a confrontation. I fear that the real confrontation is yet to come. Clearly, Beauty has problems, and those aren’t limited to me turning her down. Clearly, she is depressed. But what can I do? Okay, to paraphrase, can I even do anything? If I want to help - won’t it make matters worse?

Okay, I’ll probably ponder on that during one of the lectures tomorrow. For now, it’s sleep. And may Beauty’s dreams be sweet tonight.

Octavia Philarmonica, November 8th