Miss Harshwhinny Becomes a Relationship Counselor
Ms. Harshwhinny Becomes a Relationship Counselor
Admiral Biscuit
Like most disasters, this one started out innocently enough. Miss Harshwhinny happened to be shopping at Trivets & Trophies when she ran across an old acquaintance, Aphrodite.
The two of them engaged in some obligatory smalltalk and discussed the benefits of traditional wooden trivets compared to the more modern Manehattan metal models, and then Aphrodite happened to mention that an unforeseen emergency would require her to leave her office in Ponyville untended for a day, and she was not looking forward to notifying all her clients who needed help with their relationships that their sessions would have to be postponed.
Miss Harshwhinny, being a good friend even to somepony that she hadn't seen in dozens of moons, offered to serve in her stead.
And, foolishly, Aphrodite agreed.
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
“Now, are you sure that you can handle it?”
“Trust me.”
“It's sensitive and discrete.”
“I can be sensitive and discrete.”
“And it's all about love.”
“I know a thing or two about love.”
“Really.” Aphrodite held the train tickets just out of Harshwhinny's grasp. “I'm having second thoughts—when's the last time you were on a date, anyway?”
“I've never let a stallion touch me,” Miss Harshwhinny said proudly. “Or a mare,” she added hastily. “But that just means I can be objective. Perhaps more objective than you.”
“Objectivity isn't the only qualification, you know. Passion is important, too.”
“Nopony is more passionate than me.”
The look on Aphrodite's face was a mixture of disbelief and resignation. “Well, I don't have any other options at this point, and really what's the worst you could do?”
“I find your lack of faith disturbing.”
Aphrodite sighed. “Just . . . be gentle, okay?”
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
All things considered, the train ride to Ponyville wasn't terrible. The train got there, and Miss Harshwhinny had to admit that getting a pony safely to her destination was the principal purpose of a train.
'In comfort' and 'with her luggage' were also important, and 'without pointless Train Security Agents' would have been nice. They’d made her go thorough a changeling detector twice, because they said that they were getting unclear readings the first time.
She was a generous mare, and was willing to give the train ride a solid two—one for leaving Canterlot and one for arriving in Ponyville and not, say, Griffonstone. If her order from Trivets & Trophies had arrived before she'd left Canterlot, she would have pinned an also-ran award on the locomotive.
Aphrodite had given her good directions to her office, which was the entire lower floor of a half-timbered, thatch-roofed house. The second floor housed a foal daycare, and the little fetlock-biters were already thundering around the rumpus room, much to her dismay.
She opened Aphrodite’s desk and took out a piece of rose-scented stationery. Frowning, she also took out a pink quill and printed her name in obsessive block letters—which were also pink, as that appeared to be the only color of ink Aphrodite owned—and placed it neatly over Aphrodite's name on her name-stick.
Writing her name in pink made her feel vaguely emasculated.
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
Her first appointment showed up promptly at ten AM, and both ponies did a double-take when they saw her. Or perhaps it was her name being written in pink.
Miss Harshwhinny was a big believer in judging a book by its cover, and thus far in life that had rarely let her down. Certainly, she was getting bad vibes from the couple, and they hadn't even introduced themselves or sat down yet; they were still staring at her agog.
At least, the rainbow-maned one was. The white unicorn was averting her eyes.
“Oh man, Miss Harshwhinny is our relationship councilor? Could this day be any cooler?”
“Rainbow, darling, please, don't cause a scene.”
“Pfft, I cause scenes better than anypony.”
“I know.”
Miss Harshwhinny cleared her throat, which was enough of a signal for the loving couple to take their seats.
She didn't know too much about therapy, except as it applied to physical therapy and for a brief moment she wondered if that was what was supposed to happen here, and her mind went to a very disturbing place before returning to the present. She nudged the desk drawer full of bridles, bits, and padded hobbles shut and turned her attention back to her clients.
“May I have your names, please?” That was the first step towards making a personal connection. There were probably other steps, too, but Miss Harshwhinny didn't know them.
“Rainbow 'Danger' Dash.”
“Rarity.”
“Very good.” Miss Harshwhinny considered writing that down but had no desire to be further emasculated, so she just looked at the loving couple. “Your problem is that you think opposites attract.”
“We haven't even told you—“
“I told you she was good.” Rainbow hoofed Rarity in the shoulder. “Was I wrong?”
“They don't,” Miss Harshwhinny stated flatly. “Have you ever seen what happens when matter and antimatter collide?”
“Um. . . .”
“They explode!” She loomed over the desk. “Miss Rarity, you're a prim and proper lady.”
“Why, thank you, darling.”
“And Mister Dash, you're a rough-and-tumble stallion.”
“I'm a mare.”
“Of course you are.”
“I am. Look! Non-shaggy fetlocks.” Rainbow waved her hoof.
Harshwhinny’s eyebrow twitched, slightly, before her face returned to its usual disbelieving scowl.
“My muzzle is cute and round, not angular.”
“Proves nothing.”
“My tail—it’s not cropped.”
“So you grew your tail out. Some stallions find that fashionable.” Miss Harshwhinny tapped her own chin. “Or tail extensions . . . I’m sure that’s not a natural color.”
“Rainbow is so a natural color,” she muttered, looking down at the floor. “What about—I know! Look under my tail! See!” She turned around and lifted her tail, but Miss Harshwhinny was very definitely not looking. She had found something much more interesting to focus on, namely, anything else.
“Rainbow, sweetie, I know you love showing off, but nopony wants to see under your tail.”
“That's not what you said last night,” Rainbow muttered, slumping in her chair. “I’m not a stallion. Do I look like a stallion? Rarity, do you think I’m a stallion?”
“No, darling, I don’t think you’re a stallion. I love you for you.”
“I’m a pity date, is that it?”
Rarity facehooved, focused a smouldering glare at Harshwhinny, and dragged her marefriend out by the tail.
Miss Harshwhinny was unfazed. Some ponies just needed to hear it straight, that was all. “Next couple, please?”
♥ ♥ ♥ ?
Miss Harshwhinny raised her eyebrows as the next couple came into her (temporary) office. She knew them both, of course; Fancy Pants and Fleur De Lis were a common sight in Canterlot.
Which was a good way to break the ice, she thought. “Why are you even in Ponyville? Don’t you live in Canterlot?”
Fancy and Fleur exchanged a glance. “Well, yes, but we happened to be passing through town, and—“
“I've seen you with other mares.” Harshwhinny leaned forward, resting her chin on her hooves.
“Well . . . “
“And you, Fleur, I've seen you with all manner of stallions. Besides him.” She frowned. “Cheating is always bad. And cheating on your partner, well. But you came to the right pony! I know all about cheating.”
“Actually,” Fleur said, “We're here for the matchmaking service.”
“Matchmaking?” Miss Harshwhinny deflated. “What makes you think—“
“Your name-stick,” both of them said in unison.
Miss Harshwhinny turned it with the toe of her hoof, then scanned down the long stick. Sure enough, it said ~~Aphrodite~~ Miss Harshwhinny, relationship counselor and matchmaker.
“I really ought to have read the whole thing before volunteering to come to Ponyville,” she muttered. “So. Matchmaking. You . . . you two are a thing. You're dating or married or—“
“I have other interests.”
“I know other stallions.”
“Lots of other stallions, dear.”
“Mmm, that one time I brought home three, do you remember?”
“And I was watching from the closet and they never knew.”
“Or remember the time you brought home your waitress and got her to put on a blindfold and she didn't know what was happening when we both—“
“ENOUGH!” Harshwhinny's anger was tempered by the furious blush on her cheeks and she very deliberately put both hooves solidly on the desk and nowhere else. “Why are you here?”
“Isn't it obvious?”
It was terribly, terribly, obvious, especially given the way that Fleur was draped across the couch, practically oozing into the cushions, while Fancy Pants was polishing his monocle in a somewhat depraved manner, and Miss Harshwhinny's face went through twelve steps of incredulity before she mustered up the willpower to speak again.
“Get out.”
“I'm sorry?” Never had an apology been so seductive, and yet it died in the center of the room like a bad metaphor.
“Get. Out.”
When the duo failed to comply, Miss Harshwhinny resorted to the only means left to her, and opened the forbidden desk drawer. Immediately realizing that any of the contents therein would be misconstrued as an invitation, she resorted instead to lifting the bottle of ink in a threatening manner. Whether it was her fiery mien or the threat of being pinked, both Fancy and Fleur beat a hasty retreat.
♥ ♥ ? ?
Lunchtime couldn’t arrive quickly enough for the beleaguered pony, and as soon as Mister and Mrs. Cake vacated her temporary office, Miss Harshwhinny closed the front door, closed the shutters over the windows, and for good measure put all the magazines into the trash can, which was where they belonged anyway. Why anypony would read Golf magazine was beyond her—golf wasn’t even a sport.
She walked to the Oatfield Cafe, and waited her turn in line. When the counterpony finally got to her, she ordered her usual lunch: plain oatburger, hold the condiments and patty, and substitute carrots for the hayfries.
The counterpony—whose nametag identified him as Squeaky—blinked at her. “Um, miss, do you really want just a bun?”
She nodded.
“Um, okay.” He took her coin and made change, then leaned down to the speaking tube to give her order to the kitchen, then looked back up at her. “Your order number is twelve thousand, six hundred forty-three.”
Miss Harshwhinny moved down the counter to the receiving end, and in a few minutes her order arrived. She opened the cardboard box that oatburgers came in and sighed. The kitchen had left off the patty and condiments, but they’d also left off the bun.
She looked at the line of ponies waiting to order their lunch and thought about getting back in line to demand that her order was fixed the way she wanted it, but that was too much bother. At least they hadn’t given her an oatburger patty. She hated those, ever since that one time when she was a filly.
There was a corner booth that was vacant, so she sat there and chewed on her carrot sticks and then bussed her own table and went back to Aphrodite’s office, unlocked the front door, opened the shutters, took the magazines back out of the wastebasket, and arranged them neatly on the small table.
Since she was back early, she had a few minutes to herself, which she used to write a letter to Oatburgers, Inc, regarding the issue of order accuracy and, since she was already writing the letter, she added in a long screed about cleanliness, especially in food establishments. That it was written in pink ink on rose-scented paper perhaps removed some of the professionalism from the letter, but hopefully whoever read it would look beyond that. Surely they would understand that a pony had to use the tools that were at hoof.
Miss Harshwhinny was just sealing the envelope with exactly one lick, no more, no less, when her next clients came through the door. “Good afternoon. What can I help you with?”
Thunderlane’s eyes darted around the room. “Um, where’s Aphrodite?”
“She had other business. I assure you I am perfectly qualified, unless you wish to include me in a bedroom activity, in which case I have no interest whatsoever.”
Cloudchaser winced, and Flitter actually stuck out her tongue and made gagging motions with her hoof. “Erm, ew. Who would want—”
Miss Harshwhinny gave her the flattest, paint-peelingist stare she could muster, which had actually won an award three years ago. “Your problem, please?”
“She gets to spend more time with him than I do,” both mares said simultaneously. “It’s not fair.”
Harshwhinny blinked, to give her mind enough time to crawl back out of the gutter and start to work on the problem. Problem-solving was one of her strengths.
“Take turns. You, with the bow. Even days. And you, with the weird glam-rock manecut, odd days.”
“What if we both want to, you know, together?”
She didn’t want to know, so rather than think about it too much she just looked up on the wall at Aphrodite’s wall-calendar which, to her misfortune, was rather graphic. Having a cutie mark in love was apparently a messy business, if the picture was to be believed.
“Whipped cream,” she said. “I mean, weekends. Two days, it stays fair.”
“What if he gets sick? Like, feather flu. He’s gotten feather flu before, poor baby.”
Miss Harshwhinny blinked again. She never had time to get sick, and didn’t understand why other ponies did. “Then let him rest and recuperate an even number of days so nopony gets shafted.”
“What if he has to go to remedial weather camp again?”
“Or if I try for the Wonderbolts again?”
“How about if his mother comes over and we have to pretend that we’re just roommates and have our own separate bedrooms?”
“What if we want to save time by sharing the shower?”
Miss Harshwhinny surreptitiously took two aspirin for the headache she was sure was suddenly forming, briefly managing to ignore the protesting pegasi.
“Wait.” Flitter held up a hoof. “What about my birthday? That’s an odd day, and I don’t want to be alone on my birthday.”
“Okay, fine, switch. Problem solved.”
“But my birthday is an odd day, too,” Cloudchaser wailed.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something. Now go.”
“I’m not sure your plan will work,” Thunderlane opined.
“Trust me, it will. Ponies fail. My plans do not.”
As the trio left her office, Miss Harshwhinny eyed the schedule book warily, as if it were a rattlesnake, coiled but ready to bite at a moment’s notice.
♥ ? ? ?
Her last couple was a bulky white pegasus with stunted wings and a demure butter-yellow pegasus who hid behind her mane at the slightest provocation.
“Let me guess, relationship trouble.”
“Yeah!”
“Um. . . .”
“And you’re the quiet type, aren’t you?”
“Um, if you say so.”
“And you’re the loud, brash, outgoing type.”
“Yeah!”
“I think I see your problem.” She glanced down at the schedule book briefly, then back up. “And I think I see the solution. Why, it doesn’t say ‘matchmaker’ on my name-stick for nothing.”
“Yeah!”
“Um, I don’t think that’s yours.”
“You’re both dating the wrong pony.” She leaned over the desk. “And you’re not the only ones.”
“Really?”
“Really.” She leaned slightly further over the desk, far enough that there was a chance that the chair would slip out from under her rump and send her crashing to the floor, but sometimes you had to take risks to make a pony happy, and this was chance Miss Harshwhinny was willing to take. “But I have just the solution.”
Bulk Biceps and Fluttershy both looked at each other, and then back at her. Well, Bulk did; Fluttershy hid back behind her mane.
“Fluttershy, do you know Rarity?”
“Oh, yes. We go to the spa together on Thursdays.”
“Good!” she rubbed her hooves together. “The two of you are practically made for each other. Your coat colors compliment; she’s prim and proper and you’re quiet, and you both share an interest in fashion.”
“Um, I don’t think that I told you that. About the fashion, that is.”
“Never mind. You’re perfect for each other, and you even know each other, which will make introductions that much easier.”
“Yes, but, um, I don’t like her that way. I mean, I do, but I don’t want to date her.”
“Trust me, you’ll be so much happier. And you—“ She turned to Bulk.
“Yeah!”
“Do you like a pony who’s brash and daring and strong and fast?”
“YEAH!”
“And how do you feel about stallions?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll take that as a ringing endorsement. As it happens, Rarity’s former partner Rainbow Dash is now looking for a new special somepony, and you, Mister Biceps could be that somepony. I know it might seem strange to date another stallion, especially after—“
“Rainbow’s a mare.”
“Now you’re getting into the spirit! Next couple, please!”
? ? ? ?
Mental tasks were oftentimes as challenging as physical tasks, Miss Harshwhinny thought. Aphrodite’s problem, she was sure, was that she let ponies continue down paths that simply were not the correct path, and now that she’s straightened everypony out . . . well, it was kind of a shame, since the waves of happiness that were sure to be spreading over Ponyville might reduce Aphrodite’s caseload somewhat, but that wasn’t entirely bad; it could give her time to take more days off, or perhaps even take up a physical hobby, like mud wrestling. That was a popular sport.
She stood on the platform, waiting for the train which would whisk her back to Canterlot, feeling a sense of satisfaction at a good day’s work. She could practically feel the warmth her counselling had caused, and it hadn’t even been a full day yet.
Behind her, Ponyville burned.
Author's Note
Story notes!
