Chapters Dinner with Rose
I was laying on the couch in Tenderheart's office. I know she thought that was strange—especially since it was too short for me—but I'd been doing it since our first meeting. She'd asked me about it once, about two months in, and I'd told her that that was how it was done on Earth. At least, that's how it was done on TV.
And it did kind of help. I'm not sure why, but it was easier to open up if I wasn't looking at her. I could just concentrate on the cracks in the plaster ceiling and pretend that I was talking to myself.
"It was a little scary, but liberating . . . I think."
"Did you stay unclothed?"
"No." I let my eyes trace over the longest crack. It gave me time to think. If she ever re-plastered the ceiling, I was going to be in trouble. "I—I couldn't do it. I wanted to, but there were too many ponies there. So I put my panties back on before I got out of the tub.”
“What did Rose say?”
“Nothing.”
It was true, she hadn't said anything. She hadn't had to. She'd watched me pull my shorts over my soaked panties—which I'd towelled dry as best as I could, but of course it wasn't enough to really dry them—and she'd given me a few sympathetic looks as we walked back to my house, especially when my underwear soaked through my shorts.
We'd said our goodbyes outside my front door, and then I'd gone inside and stripped down, put on my robe, and started dinner. I probably should’ve invited her to stay, but I'd been just a little too stressed to deal with company for any more of the day.
There hadn't been any time for us to get together since then. I'd spent the next few days working with Holly, sweeping chimneys, then a back-breaking day of work at the mill, filling in for a sick pony. I'd be going back there after our session was done.
“It wasn't like we were mad at each other,” I said defensively. Tenderheart had an unnerving way of sometimes just falling silent. It was undoubtedly a trick to get me to fill the vacuum, and it worked every time. “I had to work, and so did she.”
“Mmm-hmm.” I could hear the scratch of pencil against paper.
“Maybe I should invite her over for dinner.”
“Or drinks—a lot of mares like that.”
“It won't send mixed signals, will it? She won't think I'm coming on to her, will she?”
“Are you?”
“I don't . . . no.”
“We're almost out of time for today,” Tenderheart told me. “You can sit up if you want to.”
I smiled at that. Tenderheart had some kind of sixth sense when it came to time. I don't know how she did it. Maybe she had a clock hidden somewhere in her desk.
As I struggled upright, the town clock began chiming.
She came around her desk and nuzzled my cheek; I automatically brushed my hand lightly against hers in response.
• • •
The mill was a great place to think, because it was repetitive. I carried bags of flour down to the store-room and put them on shelves. It was sorted three ways—if a customer in town had ordered it special, it went along one wall. Most of the restaurants and the hospital had their own marked bins; on any given day, there were a few dozen ponies who made specific orders. Each of those bags had a cutie mark drawn on them.
Across from that, taking up two other walls, was where the bulk of the flour went. One side was for flour to be sold locally, and the other wall was flour to be exported to Canterlot. It was easy to know which was which: sacks went on the Ponyville side, and barrels on the Canterlot. Fortunately for me, the Canterlot order had already been filled, so I didn’t have to worry about moving barrels.
Twice a week, a pair of stallions would bring a large wagon, load up the barrels, and cart it off to the train station.
I thought about what Tenderheart and I had talked about as I made my careful way down the curved ramp into the basement, a sack of flour over my left shoulder. She'd hinted that my desire to cover myself wasn't dissimilar to any mare's discomfort with having a stranger under her tail.
I got that. I totally understood it. I didn't want anyone I didn't know very well running their hands or hooves around my crotch, after all. But there was a missing piece to the puzzle, one that was just out of my grasp.
I mulled over it all day—I didn't have anything else to think about, after all.
As usual, by the end of the day I was soaked with sweat. One thing the ponies had plenty of was physical labor. I took my pay, accepted a small loaf of freshly-baked bread, and headed home.
After putting the bread in my breadbox, I grabbed a clean pair of pants, along with my soap and washcloth, and set a course for my favorite secluded bend in the river. I was going to have to come up with a different solution soon; it was getting towards late summer, and before too long, bathing outside was going to be impossible.
If I could get a week's worth of work for the cooper, I could probably convince her to make me a tub at a decent price, but thus far I hadn't been able to sell her on my usefulness. I'd seen an episode of Dirty Jobs where Mike Rowe made barrels, but I couldn't remember any helpful details of the process, just that Mike wasn't very good at it.
Why couldn't he be here instead of me? He'd love the place. Nothing but backbreaking labor.
I took a quick look up and down the street, to make sure that there weren't any ponies nearby, before ducking along the small trail that led around and under the bridge. I didn't know why it was here—I'd first thought it was some kind of access path to inspect the bridge abutments, until I'd seen a pegasus checking out the underside of one of the bridges in town. My current guess was that it was a make-out spot.
Fortunately for me, those weren't popular until around dusk. Or at least, that was the case back on Earth.
Dinner with Rose
I began by washing my clothes. They wouldn't be as clean as I could get them at home with the washboard, but they'd be good enough to wear another day.
Thankfully, I was done with heavy lifting for the week—I’d finally convinced Rarity that I could handle painting her boutique. She wanted a fresh coat for the fall.
In exchange, she'd promised to make me three complete sets of clothes, one for each day of work. It was a fair trade; it would be enough to get me through winter in a pinch. If I could figure out knitting, I'd be even better off, but so far the reality of my knitting skills hadn't produced anything useable. At least I could just undo my work and start again with nothing wasted but time, and I had plenty of time. A day’s work usually ended mid-afternoon, and there wasn’t much else to entertain me after that. I suppose that was one of the benefits of living in a society with no television and no internet.
Once my clothes were clean, I waded up to the bank and tossed them on the sloping stone abutment of the bridge.
Back in the center of the stream, I soaped my body off, then ducked my head under the water to get my hair wet. The soap bar wasn't all that great for washing hair, but it was a lot cheaper to buy bar soap than shampoo.
After two lather-and-rinse repetitions, I turned so that I was facing upstream and dove underwater again, letting the flow of the water get the last of the soap out of my hair. When I couldn't hold my breath any more, I broached the water like a dolphin, pushing off the bottom to get as much altitude as I could. There wasn't really any purpose to this, other than it made me feel like some kind of river goddess.
I grabbed my towel off an overhanging branch and patted down my hair a little bit. I'd comb it out and braid it once I got home.
I'd just stepped the rest of the way out of the water when I heard a branch snap. Instinctively, I wrapped the towel around my waist and looked around for the source of the noise. A moment later, a cream-colored filly with a two-tone blue mane and a garland of flowers around her neck stepped out of the underbrush.
“How long have you been there?” I asked, more sharply than I'd intended.
Her ears drooped and she took a step back. “Just . . . just a couple of minutes.” Her eyes darted to my right, and I knew she was about to bolt.
“I'm sorry.” I made sure the towel was secure, and then crouched down. The last thing I needed was to get a reputation for being mean to foals. “You just surprised me, that's all. It's all right.”
She took a sideways step, while I stayed put. It didn't take long for her natural curiosity to win her over, and she came out of the underbrush and approached me.
She gave me a quick once-over before sticking out a hoof. “I'm Apple Flora. You’re Sam—I’ve seen you around town.”
As I reached out to bump it, I tried to place her, but came up dry. A good third of the ponies in this town were Apple-somethings, and they were all related. I didn't think I'd seen her before. “Are you related to—“ the Apples , I almost said, which would have been the most retarded thing to come out of my mouth in quite a while. “Um, to Applejack or Apple Cobbler?” I saw those two around town the most.
“They're both my aunts,” she said. “My mom's Apple Cider.”
“Blue coat and blonde mane? Wears a plaid bow in her mane?”
“Uh-huh.” She nodded eagerly. “She sells cider at the market. It's really good. Some of it's bitey, and it's mostly for grown-ups but sometimes she lets me have some before bedtime if I've been good. But I can't share it with my friends unless it's okay with their mothers, she says.”
“Why are you out in the woods?”
“'Cause school's over and I wanted to find some wildflowers.” She turned her rump towards me, showing off her cutie mark. Unsurprisingly, it was apple-themed: an apple and apple blossoms. “Wildflowers are pretty. They grow up all on their own without anypony helping them.”
“Yes, they do.”
I grabbed my pants and started putting them on under my towel, figuring that she wasn't going to be spooked when I stood up again.
“Sometimes I like to play in the water, too, because it's cooler than the pond on the orchard. But mom says I can't unless my friends are with me.” When I unwrapped the towel and draped it over my shoulders, she gave me another quick once-over. “Miss Cheerilee had a drawing of you in class, but I've never seen you up close.”
“That's . . . great.” I was going to have to stop by the school and take a look at that drawing. “So you were watching me for a while, then.”
She nodded. “Your coat's funny. If somepony had told me it looked like that on the playground I wouldn't have believed her, but Miss Cheerilee said that's what it was like. She’s a teacher so she always has to tell us the truth.”
I was really going to have to take a look at that drawing. “Yes, teachers always have to tell the truth.” I reached over and touched her mane. “Do you want to walk back into town with me?”
“Sure.”
“Just let me get my clothes.” I went down the bank and grabbed my wet laundry, draping it over an arm.
“You know,” she began, looking up at me as I came out from under the bridge. She had a kind of uncertain expression on her face.
“What?”
“You shouldn't pee upstream from where you're gonna swim. Just in case some of it gets in the water.”
My face turned bright red. She saw that? Great. Now I'm corrupting children.
“And you squat more than a colt.” Her pronouncement made, she scrambled up the bank, turning to watch me as I picked my way carefully up the slope.
“Hey, you try peeing standing on your back legs,” I said defensively.
“Nuh-uh. I'd get my tail all wet.”
She waited until I'd made it up to flatter ground before following the trail to the road. Despite her lead, I easily caught up to her—her four short legs gave her an advantage on a slope, but her head didn't even come up to my waist. I slowed down so she wouldn't have to trot to keep up.
“So where do you live, anyway?”
“Cross town, on the Canterlot side. We've only got a small orchard, but we get a lot of bruised apples and funny-shaped apples from other farms. When I got my cutie mark, my older sister went out to Appleoosa to help out with their trees, ‘cause the soil isn’t as good out there, even with a bunch of earth ponies. They've got buffalos in Appleoosa—we learned about buffalos in class, too, but I’ve never seen one.”
My house was on the other side of town, closer to the Everfree. It wasn't good growing land, so the homes were cheaper over there.
Plus, I'd started out my new life gathering firewood with a donkey named Berry Black, and my house was conveniently close to where he lived.
“But we should go to market. Mom likes it when I help her pack up after.”
“Alright.”
“What's it like being a human?” she asked as we turned towards town. “Is it weird? I bet you can see all sorts of stuff 'cause you're tall.”
“Yeah, I can.” I chuckled.
As we went through town, she kept asking me questions. She wanted to know everything about me. I was only half-paying attention: I was keeping an eye out for the reactions of other ponies.
When I'd first showed up in town, they'd been frightened of me, and I don't blame them. Fortunately, it hadn't been the kind of fright which led to pitchfork and torch mobs; instead, they'd just avoided me.
I hadn't known it at the time, but working with Berry Black had actually lowered my social standing. But he was the only one who'd give me work, and he let me stay at his house while I saved up bits for a place of my own. It wasn't much, but it was a roof and walls.
I'd probably still be cutting wood, except that he'd offered my services to Ginger Gold when he went out of town for a week. She ran the wood yard where we made our deliveries.
She was skeptical at first, but it turned out I could split wood better than she could, and for a week that was my job.
It was the worst week of my life. I hadn't known it was possible to be in so much pain. But it got a lot of ponies in town used to seeing me, and before too long other mares were asking to hire me for odd jobs.
Just because they trusted me to split wood, haul sacks or grain, dig ditches, or even paint buildings, though, didn’t change their general wariness around me. I’d seen the same whenever Berry Black had dealings in town. Mares would watch fillies more closely, and no matter how crowded the street, there’d always be a bit of clearance around him and his wagon. Until I’d started hanging out with Rose, I’d generally gotten the same treatment.
It was a bit disheartening.
Still, not everyone reacted that way. Mr. Breezy gave me a friendly wave—I'd unclogged his gutters during a rainstorm. Vera nodded politely as she passed the other way, heading for the spa with loaded saddlebags, and Mrs. Cake asked me to stop in for a free treat next time I was by Sugarcube Corner, then ran off after Pumpkin, who'd managed to slip her leash.
Apple Flora watched the foal gallop off with Mrs. Cake in hot pursuit, then turned to look at me. “Do you have any foals?”
I shook my head. “I’m too young for that.” Technically, it wasn't true, but it was a reasonable enough answer.
“Oh.” She looked up at me curiously. “I thought you might have mastitis. Everypony says you see Nurse Tenderheart a lot. Aunt Fritter got it once after weaning Sweet Tooth, and it made her udders swollen and painful. She had to spend two days in the hospital and then take medicine until she was better.”
“Nope, these are normal. It’s a human thing.” I looked over the crowd, trying to spot Apple Cider's booth. At a guess, the one with the mug and apple on the sign was probably where we were heading.
“They're pretty big. Not as big as a cow, though. Diamond Dog bitches walk on their hind legs a lot, and they don't have udders.” She ducked between a couple of ponies balancing a wood beam on their back; I went around. “Come on, mom's stall is just over this way.”
She was headed in the direction I'd guessed, towards the stall with the mug and apple.
I got a bit nervous as we got close enough for Apple Cider to see me. Most of the Apples liked me well enough—their family ethics revolved around hard work and loyalty, and I'd never done anything which crossed those boundaries—but being in the company of her foal might change her tune just a bit.
“Mom!” Apple Flora bounded up to the stand, ducked under the tablecloth, and glomped her mother. I didn't; I stayed back where I was, a friendly smile on my face. “I was out in the woods and I found a bunch of wildflowers and I made you a necklace out of them and then I also saw Sam swimming in the creek and we came back into town together.” She let go of her mother's forelegs and pulled the garland off her neck. Apple Cider leaned down to let the filly drape it over her, then waved back at me.
“Come on over,” she said. When I got close, she looked at me critically. “Where were you at?”
“Just that side of town, under the bridge over the stream.”
“Were any of her friends there?”
“I didn't see them if they were.”
“She didn't go swimming, did she?”
“Mooom, of course I didn't.”
“No.” I shook my head. “She was just in the woods, gathering flowers, like she said. Never even got close enough to the water to fall in by mistake.”
“That's good.” She leaned down and ruffled her daughter's mane.
“She's a smart filly,” I observed.
“She is. I'm proud of her. Alright, kiddo, time to pack up and head home.”
Without even asking, I set my wet clothes on the side of the stand and pitched in, too, carefully arranging the bottles in their wood packing.
As each case was loaded, we stacked them neatly beside her stand, before bundling the awning into a box that went under the sales counter, raised off the ground on small blocks of scrap wood. She put her cashbox and the folded tablecloth into her saddlebags.
“Are you just going to leave those there?” I asked her, pointing to the stack of crates.
“Aunt Fritter has a wagon,” Apple Flora explained. “She'll take them back with her tonight.”
“We take turns.” Apple Cider lifted the lid on the top crate. “No sense in having a half-dozen mares take trips with a wagon, when one'll do it.” She grabbed a bottle in her mouth and offered it to me. “Here, take thiff.”
“You don't have to,” I said, as I took the bottle.
“Please. I know I wasn't as neighborly as I should have been when you first came to town. I always see you around, helping somepony, even when you don't have to. I respect that. And my daughter seems to have taken a shine to you, as well.”
“Well, thanks. I really appreciate it.” I picked my clothes off the barren stand. “See you later. You too, Apple Flora.”
“Bye!” The filly gave me a cheerful wave.
Dinner with Rose
I headed across the market with an extra spring in my step. Things were looking up; I was starting to fit in. And now I had a nice bottle of apple brandy, too. I could give it away, perhaps, or maybe sell it, but that would be rude. It would be better to share it, and I knew who I wanted to share it with.
I made a beeline for the flower trio's stall. Like everyone else, they were packing up for the day, selling their remaining stock at a discount. I waited in line behind Apple Cobbler, who bought five bunches.
“Hi, Sam,” Daisy and Lily said in unison.
“Do you want to buy some flowers? The chrysanthemums are really tasty.”
“Sam only likes roses,” Lily said, and the two snickered.
“She's not here, is she?”
“Nope. She's at home. It's her turn to make dinner.” Daisy eyed the bottle in my hand. “Ooh, apple brandy.”
I nodded. “Could you ask Rose if she wants to come over to my house for dinner tomo—I mean, Sunday?” Tomorrow was out; I'd be covered in sweat, grime, and paint for the next three days, and wouldn't want to do any more than just rinse off until I was done .
“Sure.” Lily nodded. “As long as it's after market.”
“After market's good,” I told her.
As I walked away from their stand, I heard them whispering to each other. Probably at my expense.
At least they'd gotten past the 'fleeing in terror' stage.
Still, I thought I should stop by their house and invite Rose personally. I could do it tomorrow, on the way to Rarity's. A personal invitation was always better.
• • •
There was always something inviting about home, no matter how modest it was. It was my sanctuary, the place where I controlled everything. I wiped my feet off on the doormat as I opened the front door. It reminded me I'd want to come up with some kind of boots for the winter, too—bare feet weren’t going to cut it. I'd seen a pair of fillies on roller skates, so they had some concept of complete foot coverings. I'd just have to find some pony who knew how to make them without wheels.
I set the bottle on the kitchen counter, and then went to hang up my wet underwear and shorts, before getting undressed. It was still warm enough to go without the robe, at least until sundown.
I cut a couple of slices off the loaf I'd gotten at the mill and spread on a little bit of marmalade. When I'd finished the bread and was brushing crumbs off my chest, I snickered. I guess they were big to a pony, but nothing much back home. Ah, children and their questions. Even Tenderheart hadn't brought the subject up, once she'd established that I wasn't sick.
Usually—understandably—they were more interested in my facial features, and my missing tail. None of the ponies I'd talked to had ever seen a creature without a tail.
I took a glass of water with me into the living room, and sat down on the couch, where my third attempt at a scarf mocked me. With a sigh, I began pulling out the stitches, winding the wool back onto the skein as I went.
The fourth try wasn't the charm, either, but I was getting a lot better. The sides were even, now, and the rows almost all had uniform thickness. It was still a bit hideous, but if push came to shove, it was something I'd wear outside. I ran out of wool before it was long enough, and made a mental note to get more next time I was at market. Or maybe I could buy some from Rarity tomorrow.
Since there wasn't any TV, I'd been toying with the idea of knitting simple scarves and selling them. Rarity had a couple, so I guessed ponies would wear them. I could use the money I made to buy more wool for my own winter clothes.
I got up and held the scarf in front of me, examining it carefully. A few dropped stitches here and there, a slightly uneven border—but overall, it was a scarf . And I still had a couple of months left to hone my skills, before the weather turned cold.
I yawned and tossed it back on the couch. In the kitchen, I refilled my glass with the hand pump, and then headed upstairs. I could read a couple more chapters of Daring Do, and then sleep—tomorrow was going to be a long day.
• • •
Painting was just as horrible and miserable as I'd remembered. The only sensible way to go about it was to start from the top and work down; that way if I accidentally made any drips, I could fix them later. So I started my day perched on the roof of Rarity's boutique, along with a collection of brushes and paint cans I'd humped up the rickety ladder one at a time.
The first hour went well enough, and then I accidentally hit a beehive with a brush.
Until then, I hadn't known that I could run off a roof and down a ladder faster than bees could fly.
There was a delay while Fluttershy was rounded up, as well as profuse apologies from Rarity. But no harm was done, and I had company for the first part of the day: Fluttershy sat up there with me, in case the bees got riled up again.
She wasn’t much of a conversationalist. She spent more time talking to the bees than to me. Occasionally, a bird would fly by, spot her, and come land on her head or outstretched wing. That was weird.
When the cupola was finally finished, Fluttershy flew off, and I came down the ladder with my paint buckets in tow. Rarity paled when she saw how much paint I'd gotten on my pants—as careful as I'd been, there were still splotches all over them and me. It was some kind of oil-based paint, so it probably wasn't going to wash out.
I'd anticipated that going in. When I'd been in college, I'd been suckered into one of those house-painting companies that advertised all over campus. It was a better job than working at McDonalds for the summer, at least. But most of my co-workers were complete potheads, and getting the company to actually pay what they'd promised was like pulling teeth. I'd had the foresight to wear Salvation Army clothes, with bike shorts and a halter top underneath. At the end of each day, I stripped off next to my car and tossed my paint-covered clothes in the trunk, where they'd be ready for the next day's work. When summer was over, I just pitched them.
Here, I couldn't afford to do that, but I was wearing my worst pair of pants. Nonetheless, I let her talk me into accepting a fourth set of clothes to make up for ruining the ones I was wearing.
• • •
The second and third days were pretty much a repeat of the first. Rarity measured me before I went to work on the second day, remarking that I'd lost an inch around my waist. I'd noticed that already—it was hard to lie to myself about my weight when I was half-naked all the time.
If I ever get back to Earth, I think I'll write a book about the Equestrian diet. Lots of hard, hands-on work, walking everywhere, and a vegetarian diet just melt the pounds off. I hoped that I was nearing the end of that trend—much more, and I’d be into malnourished territory.
I finished the boutique mid-afternoon, washed up using Rarity's hose, and cleaned the brushes with the paint thinner she had. A little bit of it on a rag cleaned most of the spots off me, too—I hadn't done that the previous two days, because I didn't think paint thinner was good for the skin.
She told me that I could pick up my new clothes at the end of the week. I was just on my way out of the shop when Sweetie Belle came trotting in.
“Hey, Sweetie.” I crouched down and gave her a hoof-bump. “Off from school?”
“Yup.”
“No crusading today?”
She shook her head. “Apple Bloom's gotta help out at the farm. They're mowing hay.”
“What about Scooby Doo?” That joke never got old, even though the ponies didn't get it.
“Scootaloo?” Sweetie shrugged. “She said something about Rainbow Dash, and took off on her scooter as soon as class was over.”
“Well, don't touch the outside of the boutique,” I warned her. “I just got done painting it, and you can't get a cutie mark in tracking paint across the floor and having your big sister murder you.”
“That already happened once,” Sweetie mumbled. “Except for the murdering. She made me scrub the whole floor, even the parts that I didn't get paint on. And I didn't get a cutie mark, either.”
“Good. You've already tried it. No need for a second attempt.” I liked Sweetie. She wasn't the sharpest filly in town, and like her friends, she could turn anything into a disaster, but she had a good heart. “Rarity's in her sewing room. I'd love to stay and play, but I have to get ready for a dinner with a friend.”
I gave her a wave and headed out of the boutique.
I didn't have to go to the market to get supplies for dinner—I'd taken care of that last night. But I did need to bathe and put on clean clothes before Rose came over.
I stopped by my house just long enough to grab a pair of trousers, clean underwear, and my towel, then headed to my favorite bridge.
For the first time ever, it wasn't deserted. Apple Flora was there, waiting in the little clearing, with a towel on her back.
“I wanted to go swimming,” she announced. “I knew you were coming, 'cause I saw you come out of your house with a towel and pants.”
“Didn't your mother say that you weren't supposed to go swimming without your friends?”
She nodded. “They're all haying. But I don't have to, 'cause I did it yesterday, when all of them got time off. Mom said that having too many fillies helping during haying is like herding cats, which is stupid because everypony knows that cats do whatever they want.”
“I can see how you wouldn't understand the expression,” I said dryly. Her face was eager, expectant—she was bound and determined to swim.
“Besides, you’re my friend,” she insisted. “Mom likes you, too. She doesn’t give out her apple brandy to just anypony .”
I could stay in my panties—I could get clean enough with them still on. That was a safe choice. It would avoid further corrupting an innocent filly.
“Okay,” I said. “But we can't take too long. I need to just wash up, and then I have to have dinner with a friend. I told her I would, and you know how important it is to keep a promise.”
She nodded eagerly. While I was getting out of my pants, she hung her towel up over a branch, and then bounded into the water, leaping off the bank in a majestic bellyflop.
Her head popped back above the water, and she shook her forelock out of her eyes. “If you've gotta go, go downstream, okay?”
She didn't know why I wore pants. She had no understanding, beyond that it was a 'Sam thing.' I'm sure if I'd asked her, that's what she would have said. The concept of body modesty was beyond her understanding. She'd never had her mother yelling at her to not sit in a skirt that way, or to pull down her dress, or do you know what boys will do to you if they see your panties? She was freer than I was.
That's what I told myself, as I folded my pants neatly. That's what I kept telling myself as I moved to the water's edge, her innocent ruby eyes regarding me as I touched a toe in the water.
“You forgot something,” she said, pointing a hoof at my panties.
And she was probably better off for it.
The only other possible excuse I could make that she'd understand was that it was 'that time of month,' and I wasn't really sure exactly how pony menstrual cycles worked—if they even had them. It wasn't a subject that had ever been broached. I was vaguely aware that back on Earth, mares went into heat in the springtime, but I'd never known more than that. Was it a continuous thing, or did it come and go?
The worst thing was, if I'd asked her, she probably would have told me. She probably knew all about it. But I couldn't.
“I forgot,” I said, my hands moving to the waistband of my panties. “They're just so comfortable.”
“They'd be inconvenient whenever you had to go.” She dove back under the water.
This was it. In one smooth motion, I slid them down, flicking them up onto shore even as I jumped into the water.
Success! I made it in, deep enough that my waist was covered, before her head broke the surface again. As long as I got out of the water before her, she wouldn't see anything but my butt, and that was okay. I could live with that.
She broached the water right next to me, splashing spray all over my chest. “I'm a seapony,” she announced, diving again.
My smugness lasted until she came up for the third time. That's when I noticed that my bar of soap was still on the shore, well out of reach.
I could tell her to look away while I got it. She probably wouldn't, of course. I could tell her that it wasn't polite, but she wouldn't understand why. Or I could wait until something distracted her. A floating stick, maybe. Or stomping her hooves in the riverbed, to watch the puffs of muck come up and flow downstream. That had distracted me often enough when I was a kid. I could even tell her to see how long she could hold her breath underwater, and I'd be back in the stream before she brought her head up.
Or I could just stop acting like an immature child, and go get the damn soap.
“I've got to get my soap,” I told her. “Keep where I can see you, okay?”
She nodded eagerly.
It wasn't easy. If she'd been a colt, I don't think I could have done it. The worst part was that half my brain wanted her to disobey my instructions, wanted me to not see her head or her curious eyes looking my direction when I walked back to the water. Years of mental conditioning were telling me that if anyone saw us, I'd be going to jail for sure, and while the rational part of my mind kept telling me that wasn't so, it was no less uncomfortable.
But I did it.
And once I'd cleaned off all the paint, and washed my hair, we just played around in the water. I even gave her a piggyback ride, finally carrying her all the way out of the water onto shore.
I could tell by the way she was gripping my head that she wasn't comfortable with being that far above the ground, so I knelt down and let her climb off my back.
She shook herself off, then wrapped the towel efficiently around her mane. I used the normal human method of drying, then draped the towel over my shoulders, where it would help dry my hair, and keep the drips down. I'd never liked the feel of wet hair dripping down my back.
She nuzzled my leg, and I reached down to scritch her damp mane.
“We should be swimming buddies,” she suggested. “You're big and tall and can go in water where my hooves won't even touch the bottom.”
“Yeah.” I felt so tired. So drained . “We should.”
“It's more fun when there are more of us. After haying is over, all my friends will be here, and you should bring yours, too.”
“Yeah,” I said noncommittally. “Maybe Rose would like swimming in the creek.”
“Are you special someponies?”
“No. Just friends.”
I got dressed and gathered up my dirty clothes while Apple Flora shot off into the woods. I thought about following her, but she fit a lot more easily through the underbrush than I did, and besides, her mother hadn't said anything about needing someone to keep an eye on her when she was in the woods.
She came galloping back out with a branch stuck on her towel and a bunch of flowers in her mouth. “It's wild aster,” she told me. “Just started blooming, so it should be tender.”
“Thanks.” I took the flowers and stuck them in my pocket. “Can I give these to Rose?”
She nodded seriously.
“Okay.” I looked up at the sky. “It's getting late. I have to go home and start dinner; you ought to head over to the market and give your mom a hand, right?”
“Right!” She gave me a mock-salute, and trotted to the top of the slope, before turning back at me. “Are—are you coming back here tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow,” I told her. I'd decided to take the day off. A nice break from manual labor. I could get to the school, see that drawing of me Cheerilee was showing her class, maybe go to the library and find a book on knitting socks, and just do whatever.
“How about the day after?”
“Probably the day after.”
Dinner with Rose
After making sure that Apple Flora was headed to the market, I turned towards my house. Once I got there, I wiped my feet on the mat, hung up my painting clothes to dry, and headed into the kitchen.
I took off my pants and set them out of the way on the kitchen counter, then got the stove going. As it warmed up, I began to get out the ingredients for dinner. It was going to be simple—I wasn't much of a cook, but a salad, stir fry, and mashed potatoes weren't that difficult to make. Plus, I had some raisin bread I'd bought at Sugarcube Corner, and, of course, the asters Apple Flora had picked for me.
Cute little filly , I thought as I peeled the potatoes. Maybe polite and reserved conversations with Rose weren’t the way to get me to change—maybe it took the blunt statements of a filly to knock me out of my rut.
I eyed the bottle of apple brandy. I hadn't touched it yet—I was going to open it after dinner. Everyone I'd asked had said it was really good, and it might be just the thing to kick off a girl's night.
While the potatoes were boiling, I threw together a salad, then sliced up the loaf of bread.
I'd been forced into a lot of dietary changes when I came here. Lots of fresh fruits and vegetables—everybody knew that they were good for you, but I just never seemed to have the time to get to the supermarket and buy them, although I had always made an effort to try and have at least somewhat healthy meals most of the time.
Sadly, there weren't many vegetarian dishes I'd known how to make before. I was learning, sure, but I was still of the mind that a formal dinner required some sort of meat-based centerpiece dish.
Maybe it was a result of things like potatoes and green beans and salads being called 'side dishes' in restaurants, as if they weren't good enough on their own.
That meant that the only vegetable dish I was really good at cooking was going to be the centerpiece—a vegetable stir-fry.
Cooking wasn't like knitting. Precision wasn't really an issue. Sure, maybe there were chefs who measured their ingredients to the micron, but for the average person, close enough was good enough.
Not that my attempts at cakes proved my point. But baking a cake was different than making mashed potatoes, especially if you didn't have a box with instructions on it.
The best part of the stir fry was the sliced vegetables. I'd noticed that most pony food was served with minimal preparation, which I imagined was a result of not having hands to do fine work. The one fancy restaurant in town did, because they had a unicorn in the kitchen for prep work. True, there were some machines to help out, but most mares didn't own them. A person could make a fortune selling Slap Chops: the design was even hoof-friendly.
It would make the stir-fry stand out, I thought. Especially if I used brightly-colored veggies, to highlight the fine slicing.
Of course, when it was in the pan, I started to have second thoughts. That wasn't unusual; I'd always had a mild fear of displeasing a guest somehow. I think I got that from my mom.
I let my mind wander as I cooked the stir-fry, being cautious to stay far enough back to avoid oil spatters. For months, I'd dithered between paying Rarity to make me an apron or just getting fabric and make it myself; ultimately, I'd done neither.
• • •
The table was set, and I'd just begun mashing the potatoes when I heard the front door open. “I'm in the kitchen,” I called out. “Go ahead and make yourself at home.”
“I brought some of my wine,” she announced. “The kind you like.”
I heard her hooves clopping across my living room floor. I flicked an errant bit of potato off my stomach and thought about my clothes, still folded on the end of the counter, well clear of the meal preparation.
As soon as she saw me, Rose stopped in the archway between the kitchen and the living room and took a step back.
“Sorry I'm early,” she began. “I—I'll just wait out here until you're dressed.”
“No need,” I said cheerfully.
“Oh.” She eyed me suspiciously, before looking at the serving trays on the counter. “Do . . . do you want any help, then? I could carry out the food.”
“Sure. I'm almost done. There's some wild asters, if you're feeling peckish.” I waved towards the glass I'd put them in. “Go ahead—eat as many as you want. I won't have more than one.”
She bit the head off a flower, and then took the salad and bread to the table. By then, I was done with the potatoes, and transferred them into my last bowl.
I saved the stir-fry for last, setting the pan on a folded towel in the center of the table. “It's hot,” I warned Rose as she leaned in for a sniff.
“That smells really good,” she told me. “Did you cut up all those vegetables yourself?”
I nodded.
“That must have been a lot of work.”
“It didn't take too long. Go ahead, have a seat. I'll pour the wine.”
It was only slightly embarrassing to be pouring wine in drinking mugs—fortunately, that had been all Rose had had at her house, too.
The serving dish arrangement left something to be desired as well. My mother had everyday dishes, good dishes, dishes for company, and the 'good' china. Well, she’d told me she had the last; I'd never seen it. For tableware, I owned three plates, two mugs, two bowls, one serving bowl, one mixing bowl, and one set of utensils.
“I saw you painting the boutique,” Rose said. “A bunch of ponies in the market were talking about it, too. Some of them were afraid you might fall, especially after Fluttershy left. You can't fly, can you?”
I shook my head. “We've—we humans have made machines which let us fly, but we can't on our own. Can't cast spells, either. We're pretty much like earth ponies, when you get down to it.”
“No wonder Lily likes you. She doesn't like magic.” Rose stuck her muzzle down in her salad bowl and ate a mouthful, swallowing before speaking again. “Sometimes her and Daisy get in arguments about it. I think it's silly—a mare can't help what she's born as, right?”
“No disagreement from me.” I started nibbling on a piece of bread.
• • •
I let Rose have the lion's share of the stir-fry, since she liked it so much. She only gave a token protest, more to be polite than anything.
When dinner was over, she helped me wash the dishes and put them in the drying rack. Once that was done, I adjusted the dampers on the stove, and we went into the living room. I brought the bottle of apple brandy with me.
Rose and I shared the couch. I’d added some scrap wood under the legs so it would be a good height for me, which meant Rose had to struggle a bit to climb on, but she didn't complain.
Rather than use mugs, we just passed the bottle back and forth, because that's what friends do. I let her have the first drink, and she rolled it around in her mouth a little bit before swallowing. “That's really good brandy,” she told me. “Did you buy it just for our dinner?”
“It was a gift,” I began, and then told her about meeting Apple Flora.
“She comes by the store sometimes,” Rose said. “When she's found a flower she can't identify. It used to happen a lot. She got her cutie mark last spring, when the apple trees were blooming, but it isn't all that long before their blooms are gone, and she wanted to know more about flowers in general. Naturally, she came to visit us. Asked lots of questions, and even helped out in the flowerbeds a bit. We were hoping to take her on as an apprentice. . . .” Rose sighed and took another swig of brandy.
“Wasn't she interested?”
“Yes and no. It's hard for a farmer to leave her land. Maybe when she's older, she'll reconsider.”
I thought about that as I took another drink. I knew ponies around town who had been raised on a farm, and yet ran stores, or did crafts. The miller was a good example. But I guess I didn't know how hard it was for her to move away from her old home and move to Ponyville.
I suspected that cutie marks might have been related. From what I'd learned about them, they were like a mark of destiny that ponies got when they were old enough, and had discovered what made them special. The miller had a grinding wheel and a sack of flour. It was hard to imagine how she'd gotten it, but it might have been the impetus for change in her life.
Maybe next time I was working at the mill, I'd ask her.
“So, after you started your greenhouse, you never felt the urge to go somewhere else? Feel new soil under your hooves?”
Rose shook her head. “I put too much of myself into the beds.”
“And Daisy and Lily, too?”
“Them, too.” Rose shifted on the couch. Ponies nearly always sat on their rumps when they were in public, but preferred to lie down in their own homes. I wondered if she might be waiting for a cue from me. I could lie down first; that might serve as a hint, but there wasn’t enough room for me to stretch out on the couch.
• • •
It was completely dark by the time we'd killed the bottle. We'd been talking for a couple of hours. I was drunker than I should have been, probably as a result of staying out in the sun all day. Rose had gotten a little cuddly, stretching out on her belly with her muzzle on my leg, but otherwise seemed normal.
“You know, we never did have dessert,” I muttered. “I was going to bake a cake, but I couldn't figure it out.”
She looked up at me. “Really? It's not hard. All you need is some flour, sugar, butter, milk—“
I held up my hand to stop her. “How did you learn how to bake a cake, Rose?”
“I watched my mother. That's how everypony learns how to bake.”
“You're going to laugh when I tell you this.” I rested a hand on her mane. “But on Earth, cake mix comes in a box, and all you have to do is add the liquid ingredients. The back of the box has both pictures and written instructions. One box makes one cake.”
“What if you don't want a cake? What if you want biscuits?”
“You buy a different box.”
“I thought . . . “ She flicked her ears down briefly.
“That I was a good cook?” I chuckled. “Not really. Stir fry's pretty easy, with hands. Once you've got the veggies sliced, you just stir them around in hot oil for a while.” I shifted under her. “You know what? I've got a great idea. Let's go buy some dessert. How late is Sugarcube Corner open?”
“An hour or two after sunset, depending on how many ponies are there.”
“Well, let's go.”
Rose slid back to let me off the couch. I didn't notice she'd stretched out on the cushions until I was nearly at the front door. “Aren't you coming?”
“I—“ She gave me an uncertain look. “I thought you were going to get dressed first.”
I gave a dismissive wave. “Apple Flora implied that there are naked drawings of me at the elementary school. If every kid in town knows what I look like without clothes, what’s the big deal? Besides, it's a nice night; why not?”
No doubt the Dutch courage and the darkness outside had spurred my reckless behavior. At first, I didn't really notice. First, I gave up on shirts, and it hadn't been long after I’d rented my house that I stopped wearing clothes indoors to save wear and tear. And Rose was comfortable, a known quantity, so at first walking on the street had been more like an extension of my living room.
But doubts began to creep back in when the first pony on the street noticed us. Well, me specifically.
His eyes lingered over my body for a few short seconds, but longer than I was comfortable with. Then they flicked over to Rose, and he smiled.
“Rose. Sam.”
“Nice night out, isn't it?”
“Eeyup.”
“Going back to the farm?”
He nodded.
“Is Sugarcube Corner still open?” I asked.
“Eeyup.”
“Good.”
We continued on. Once we were past, I turned back, to see if he was watching me. Nothing—not even a single backwards glance. I wasn't sure if I should be relieved or offended.
All the other ponies we encountered in the street had a similar reaction to Big Mac. They gave me a quick once-over, then continued on with their business. It was almost anti-climatic. I'd built up this picture in my mind of what would happen if I went out in public naked, and none of it was happening. To a fatigued brain stewing in a haze of alcohol, it was just too much to process.
I hesitated at the door to Sugarcube Corner. It was dumb; they didn't have shirt or shoes requirements, of course, but it was still enough that I didn't go in right away. In fact, Rose had to lead me.
Once again, the collective reaction was a non-event. Pinkie looked up, waved frantically, and greeted us enthusiastically.
Rose picked a cupcake, I chose the moistest, sugary-est, frosting-est brownie, and we went over to corner table to eat our dessert.
I kept looking around, just to make sure someone hadn't called the cops or something, but aside from a few glances in our direction—and probably not more than anyone else was getting—we ate our food without incident.
When we got back to my house, I invited Rose to stay the night if she wanted to. She quickly accepted; I think she'd expected it. She knew right where the bedroom was, of course, but she still paused in the doorway, giving me a look to make certain I was sure .
I got in first, turning the covers back for her. She climbed in beside me, curling her back up against my side.
“Are you comfortable? I’m not taking up too much of the bed, am I?”
“You’re fine, Rose.” I pulled the blankets over us, and closed my eyes, trying to empty my mind. Her tail flicked against my leg a couple of times as she settled in.
She fell asleep pretty quickly. I was exhausted—it had been a tiring enough workday, and Apple Flora had pushed my boundaries, and then I'd gone further. Much further . . . but nothing had come of it. There had been no world-ending cataclysm, no accusatory fingers pointed.
I put a hand around Rose, and tucked my face into her sweet-smelling mane. I might not have had the olfactory prowess the ponies did, but I could smell the faint odors of flowers and earth.
Comforting smells.
There was a relief to knowing nothing would come of this. Not unless I were the one to make a move, and I didn't want to. Maybe one day, if there wasn't a way back—who knew? Maybe that would be another social barrier I could overcome, but I didn't have to. No one would judge me if I did or didn't.
I shifted around on my pillow, getting myself as close to her as I could, and drifted off to sleep.
Author's Note
Story notes HERE
