Meep! Meep! Meep!
Whap!
Oy. It’s 7:30 AM—the usual time at which you got up. And yet, all the same, you loathe it.
Once you take your hand off of the bedside alarm-clock, you rise out of bed, not so eager to face reality, when it stands in harsh contrast to the blissful physics of the dream-realm. You sigh—the fresh, cool morning air flowing through you—and catch a whiff of something wafting from the kitchen. You recognize that smell—browned bread.
You stumble into the kitchen. Despite being only partly coherent, you know what that smell is. Then you spot the source—there is an equine-like being sitting on the counter. It’s white-furred, with a scarlet mane, blue eyes, and crumb-like freckles on her snout. She’s holding a plate in her teeth, upon which are two freshly-toasted slices of bread—done exceptionally well; a heart pattern is burnt right onto each slice.
“Good morning, Ginger-Bread,” you greet.
Her eyes light up, accompanied by a smile. “’Ood ’or-ing!” she returns, clearly in high spirits.
You smile slightly. In the three months you, Anon E. Mous, have been in Equestria, no other pony you know is as unique as Ginger-Bread. Besides her unfailing companionship, when most other ponies would avoid you, out of fear, or of paranoia, she also likes to snuggle up with you late at night, with her heating-elements keeping you warm, and your arms wrapped around her body, making for a pleasant night of comfort for the two of you.
Oh, and she makes toast.
Upon opening the fridge, you grab a chicken-egg from a bowl in there. One thing you noted about these Equestrian ponies is that they’re herbivores, and have no need for chicken-eggs as a result. The thought crosses your mind—is it my carnivorous habits that keep these ponies away from me? It may well be.
Behind you, you hear metal clanking. Upon turning, you see that Ginger-Bread has gotten out for you the skillet with which you fry your eggs.
“Ginger, you don’t have to do that,” you object. “You’ve made me toast already; I think I can take it from here.”
Ginger sets the skillet on the burner, then turns the striker-knob. Click-click-click-click-click! The stove lights up. “It’s no problem,” she returns. “Besides, didn’t you check your calendar?”
Then it hits you. “Hearts and Hooves Day already?” you ask.
“Of course, silly! Don’t you remember?”
“I. . . .” You are at a loss for words at this stage. If memory serves you correctly, Hearts and Hooves Day is a couple’s celebration. How can you possibly celebrate when you’re the only one of your kind in all Equestria, when everybody else—erm, pardon me—everypony else is avoiding you?
However, Ginger-Bread is a flaw in that xenophobic pattern. She took to you quite well—she can, and in fact did, tell stories of how other ponies avoid her—her, one of their own kind!—since she is essentially a toaster. She sympathizes with you.
“Did you find a special somepony yet?” she asks, with a raise of her eyebrow.
You shake your head. “I don’t have a chance,” you conclude.
“You’ll find somepony someday,” she says. “She might be right under your nose. --And besides, aren’t you forgetting something?” She points to the egg in your hand.
You walk over to the stove. “You sure you want to watch?” you ask. “I don’t want--”
“No, it’s fine.” She steps back a bit. “I’ve watched you fry eggs before; it’s not a big deal.”
Crack! The shell is broken. You then proceed to empty its contents into the skillet. It sizzles, as the proteins vitrify. You think of the egg as an eye—an eye that now is looking upon Ginger.
“What?” she asks.
You then realize that your eyes, too, are looking upon her. “Nothing,” you ad-lib. With a flick of your wrist, you flip the egg over in the skillet. It sizzles anew.
Not long after, you turn the gas off from the stove, and lift the skillet off of it. Again a flick of your wrist, and the egg is on the plate—next to the toast Ginger made for you.
As for Ginger—she needs no solid food of her own. Nay, her tail is a plug—when inserted into an outlet, she lets the electrons be her sustenance—an arrangement that works out quite nicely for the two of you.
Breakfast follows in a wordless fashion—you at the table, Ginger on the counter.
“You sure I can help you with anything else?” she asks.
“Ginger, we’ve known one another for three months,” you reply. “I can handle things like this on my own. . . well,” you admit, “other than the toast.”
Ginger smiled—“You’re welcome!” she returns.
⁂
Twelve hours later, you finally settle down in your living room.
The day wasn’t exactly easy. To pay the bills, you work odd jobs around Ponyville—one of today’s jobs, for instance, was helping with gardening with the so-called “Flower Trio”: Roseluck, Daisy, and Lily Valley. They’re very skittish, even around other ponies—so much so, you’re pretty certain you saw them only twice during the job (more likely than not, they’ve been working in other parts of the garden)—first when they asked you to help them in the garden, then when they paid you. Ten bits—for three hours of labor. It’s not too bad, considering the bit’s inflation rate (or lack thereof). It certainly pays the rent.
Behind you, you hear the familiar metallic-sounding clip-clop of a certain pony coming into the living room. “Hi Anon!” says Ginger-Bread. She had decided to unplug herself and join you. “Care for a snuggle?”
You can’t say no—after the first time you snuggled with her, there’s no answer other than “Yes.” “Sure,” you say.
Like a cat, Ginger leaps up into your lap. Her tail searches for the extension-cord that you leave near the chair for this purpose. Once she finds the cord, Ginger plugs herself in.
She once mentioned how she works as a toaster. In principle, it is the same as any household toaster back in your native world. The primary difference is that she has conscious control over her heating-elements—and what a world of difference this aspect makes! It allows her to burn designs into her toast—so finely, she can burn a poëm onto a slice. But, more importantly right now, it also means she can control the temperature of her heating-elements—so she could keep you warm, but not burn you. For snuggling, she knows the precise temperature from practice.
You cover yourselves with a blanket, to trap the heat inside. “Toasty, isn’t it?” you murmur.
Ginger rolls her eyes. She’s heard that one before. But all the same she snuggles closer to you, listening to the faint thump-thump, thump-thump of your heart.
For some reason, you can’t help but notice the smell of burning bread. Did she forget to empty her crumb tray? you wonder.
Then, without warning, she kicks the blanket off of her, just in time for a slice of toast to pop up.
Dumbfoundedly, you look down on it. Why would she make toast right here? Then you notice an odd pattern in it. Gingerly, you pluck the toast out of the slot. There’s a message in the bread:
DEAR ANON--
HAPPY HEARTS
+ HOOVES DAY
♡ GINGER-BREAD
Then Ginger gave you a brief peck to the cheek. You blush, tears welling up in your eyes. “Go ahead, have it!” she says.
“But I’d get crumbs everywhere,” you protest.
“Shh. . . .” She put a hoof to your mouth. “This is our night. We’ll take care of it in the morning. For now, just have it.”
You move her hoof away from your mouth, and take a bite. It’s good—as far as toast goes. You got through the slice in about a few minutes.
You then yawn. “Somepony sleepy?” she asks.
You glance over to the clock. 8:48—might as well go to bed. “Could you keep snuggling with me?” you ask her. “In bed?”
She nods her head. So you pick her up and go to your bedroom.
She fits neatly next to you—like another pillow. You briefly entertain the thought of having a dakimakura of Ginger. But, then again, it wouldn’t nearly be as warm as her.
Another peck on your cheek. “Good night, Anon,” she whispers.
“’Night,” you murmur, only half-coherent.
As soon as she knows you’re asleep, without waking you up, she crawls out of your bed, unplugs herself, and quietly walks back into the kitchen.
Author's Note
This was originally supposed to be cowritten by me and Wand3r3r3, who dropped out early on because he felt he couldn't keep up with me. So this story's for him, too.
Wand3r3r3-- don't doubt yourself. We all have our own styles, and I know you can be a good author. You just have to start writing. As Helen Hayes once said, "The expert at anything was once a beginner."
