The Salarymare's Infinitude
The Salarymare's Infinitude
Morning arrives, after a night of dreamless sleep. Neither dawn nor dewy-warm half-noon, a cacophony of bells and barking. She’s out of bed before waking, eyes still half-shut, curtains drawn tight against the watery sun. Hoof to the alarm, pad to the door, open, shut.
Kitchen. The dog is lolloping in circles around his bowl. Eyes shut, head pounding. A bark to match the bark; he quiets. She pats his head as the kibble rains into his bowl, loud and tinkling, and puts the kettle on. Food can wait.
Washroom. A closet to fit the pejorative. Step into the shower, rinse away the grit. Scrub. Eyes open, finally, though the curtains are closed. Half-scattered dream-bits ever-rushing, ever rushing away. Shut the water off, towel off in the shower so as not to trip over the toilet. Step out, check the clock—quarter hour passed.
Choice expletive.
Kitchen again. The kettle is quiet – nothing left for tea. Put the damn thing away; won’t have to be cleaned later, at least. Open the icebox, pick through the offerings, dog circling expectantly. Stare, less than she wants to. Nothing jumps out; oh well, there’ll be things at the office, anyway. Close the door, dog is disappointed.
Bedroom again. Shake out mane again, as habit. Don’t bother with the curtains; leaving in half an—twenty minutes, anyway. Sun’ll be there, sure as Celestia got up this morning. Stumble over a discarded bit of clothing on the way to the closet. Kick it anywhere else. Open the shutter-door, watch the hitch at the halfway mark. Shove for fullness; open.
Uniform is minimal ‘round the office. Pick out her best bow-tie. Well, second-best. Well, standard. It’s a bow-tie. Tie the tie in the dusky vanity. Don’t need to see to know she’s done it. Mane and tail done up similarly. Reflex. Crick neck, crick back, crick—oh, she’d wanted to exercise this morning.
Choice expletive.
Bathroom again. Clean teeth, touch up hair, check tie. Not perfect—never perfect. Presentable; enough. Clock again—ten minutes to three-past-the-dawn. Enough.
No tea, no biscuit, no bag to pack; running light today. Warm enough the last few to go without a coat, but she can always double back. Bang a shoulder on the wall, taking the corner too fast—typical.
Let the dog into the back on the way out, let him chase the squirrels. What had Ms Wattle said when she’d come ‘round to complain? Barking at all hours of the day from inside the house? Well, he’d done well enough on his own over the week-end; couldn’t be too bad today, right?
Fog starting to clear as she locks up, looks around the street. Sun does the trick—come to rely on it for that, when tea or time are scarce. (In Celestia we trust, all others drink coffee.) Blink out the last of the sleep, the unremembered dreams. Face the day. Wave to some neighbour or another—she only knows them by sight—let the hoof fall as he turns. Trundle down the front walk to the street.
Passing scenery. Same as it ever was—pastoral, sub-urban. Comfortable, in its own way. Squat half-timbers sliding past on either side, all neatly-kept gardens and spring-widened windows, breathing in the fragrances of pre-summer, distinct-but-indistinguishable as she meanders down the cobbles into town. Square-eyed faces, blank and still—round-eyed faces, blanker still. Know their owners, of course—see a pony enough years, you’re bosom buddies without a word.
Eyes flick skyward, tracking unaccustomed motion. Pegasus up there, corralling clouds. Eyes linger a moment on a shapely flank, back down in time to dodge the mare-and-two-foal circus. Murmured apologies as they pass, and the trek resumes. Sun remains bright. Wishes her head was in the clouds.
Town. Comes up without much warning, last row of cottages shying away like a surly commuter crowd. Small businesses, storefronts, the odd market stalls—hooves idly trace the cobble-twists and pavement-turns as Celestia’s sun pales the peeling wood and fraying thatch all around.
Bit’s and Bobs’, the sign creaks. Chartered accountancy and tackle shop—a Ponyville bona fide. Round the corner, duck in under the low-hanging net. Sidestep the foal running bait to the lake (the smell doesn’t even register anymore), up the stairs. Receptionist wants to make small talk; nod to the door, smile wanly. She understands, no matter how many times this makes, and squeaks out shrill sweetnesses to each retreating back.
The firm, at a tackle shop’s remove from the firmament—all four desks of it, and hers the only one empty. Glance over her shoulder at the clock tucked into the corner. Seven-past-three-past-the-dawn.
Choice expletive, wordlessly sighed.
Settle into the familiar discomfort of the stiff-backed chair, scan the stacks of paper for anything that wasn’t there yesterday—not a trifle, blessedly. (Inbox still stacked high; how else would she know she’s not been given the sack?) Stomach rumbles—remember breakfast. Grab the first sheet on the way to the tea station at the back. First pot’s water’s hot enough—nod thanks to Bean Counter as he passes from the washroom.
Pour, pour, pour into the cracked ceramic cup; dark amber liquid gurgles to the brim. Hint of steam against the cheek, revel in the scent of jasmine. Tea on the one hoof, scanning the page in the other, and a sweetcorn digestive held in the teeth—return trip uneventful.
Shift the piles, page by page, each account a distant whine for attention. Flip, stamp, read, refer. Longhoof or abacus, which will be quicker? More to get done before the day is through. Perpetual motion, turn-turn-turning like father’s mill, great wings spread wide for the wind. ‘Till half-five-past-the-dawn, when Trill Bit (proprietor, connoisseur of fine hats) ambles over to discuss Carrot Top’s return. Some question of in-kind foodstuffs as an alternative to the per-acre flat rate.
Yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir.
More than enough to sate him, poncy hat askew. Should know these things himself, he should, but then where would she be? He ambles away, among the desks, already asking his next mark for comment, as eyes flick to the page again. Enough time before the apex to get it squared.
Noon apex; town-hall bells distantly a-pealing, sadly not appealing. Never enough time. She’d stay and go later, on her own, but someone would inevitably ask. Or tell. And then there would be a Fuss. And she didn’t want anything to do with a Fuss. Set the abacus aside, catch the door before it swings closed behind the other girls.
Street again. Beeline to the closest boulangerie; hour’s ticking fast. Lunch rush a-washing, washing like the tide. Fried dough stands entice, but have to watch that figure, she’s not so young as she was. Push through the crowd to the stand. Seated or takeaway? Oh, it’d be nice, thank you, but there’s just not time.
Counter. Count the minutes as sandwiches fly past the glass-pane case. (Just give her the food, she hasn’t paid for showmareship.) Daisy-and-tomato on wheat with the salted hay-fries? Two lines no waiting at the register, thankyoucomeagain.
Firm, again. Idle thoughts of home. The walk is quick, and the shifting sun hustles everyone along. Trill Bit (proprietor, connoisseur of fine hats) is just heading out for the day. What does he even do, besides those client meetings and endless questions? Smiles blandly on his way out the door—ooh, she’s treating herself today?
Yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir.
Office to herself, a Celestia-kissed half-hour. Scarf down the sandwich, too quickly—what was with the sudden hunger? Surely she’d had more for breakfast this morning. Waylaid by the receptionist on the way down to bin the wrapper—there goes lunch. Boys-work-boys-clothes-weather-boys-work. Hold her own as long as she can, excuse herself as the other three file in, fed and smirking.
After lunch. Lazier now in the warm afternoon—accountants play with the boss away, but only just. They’re accountants, after all. She fiddles with the pre-lunch file, maths sliding about in her head. It shouldn’t be the kind of thing she needs to think about; always her best subject in school, wasn’t it? And no quiz-quota now but the quota you set yourself, but everyone knows they’re graded anyway.
Amid the pen-scribble diligence, find herself looking out the window. Sun-bleached businesses and shining cobble streets, but rare are the ponies venturing now. Eyes higher, to the cloudless sky—that pegasus must’ve done good work. Soft breeze in the window, summery scents waft in.
Would that Celestia, sweet Summer Goddess, come to whisk her away—some adventure, some desperate need of her presence, if only for a day. She could ask, of course, petition for leave, but Las Pegasus was a long way away, and her family still wants her out at the holidays.
The sun shines brightly on the quiet town. She wishes she remembered how to dream.
Pen-nub-scratch brings her back, and the pages win out again. Flip, stamp, read, refer. Longhoof or abacus, which will be quicker? More to get done before the day is through.
Three-to-dusk, and the distant bells a-ringing. Bean’s already disappeared for the day, and the shuffling of chairs follows suit. Every rush to be the first one out—no-one wants to have to lock up. Receptionist’s in the WC—go-go-gone, a tiny victory.
The sun has started to sink, mid-afternoon enough to know. Like Celestia, so many preparing for the evening—home, home before the sun sinks; home, home before it’s Too Late. No exception, want to get home and be away from it all for another few hours before Everything starts up again. Head down, push through the crowd, past the dusky timbers and half-shadowed streets.
Cobbles again. Dodge past the mare leading her foals home from school, maybe a smile. What’s an empty smile cost her? Can’t wait to never have any of her own, no matter what mother says. Late afternoon yawns; quicken the pace to match.
The on-again-off-again is leaning against the siding as she comes up the walk—guileless smile glued and polished, roses twirling slowly in the air beside him. Hadn’t spared him a thought that day, because she hadn’t heard from him since last week. Sass him as she comes up the walk, giggle girlishly at the vapid retort.
And see, the dog isn’t even barking.
Kitchen again. Roses in a bowl of water—never have a glass to spare, no matter how many flowers this makes. Let him stand there for a bit, making small talk as the shadows lengthen. Laugh at the dog, gambolling in the yard, chasing after Ms Wattle’s squirrels.
His stomach rumbles, hers responds. Check the icebox—goodness, didn’t she have anything for breakfast that morning? Grab some sundries, maybe that pre-made flatbread in the deep-freeze.
Crank the oven, toss it in—loosen the bowtie, starting to chafe. Kitchen heats up quick, don’t want to have to wash it if we don’t have to, now do we? And he’s nibbling the exposed neck, now—arch the back, bowtie flung far over the sofa-back, let the thrill run from nape to navel—
Ding.
Dinner. Roses on the table, chairs across. Plate of greens, plate of breads. He doesn’t mind—he’s not there for the food. Small talk, again, as food drags on. Time slows, head grows heavy. Can’t string together a coherent thought. Oh, it must just be the day getting to me—Well, maybe we should call it a night? Eyes on her flank, who would have guessed? Plates in the sink, on top of yesterday’s; tomorrow is soon enough.
Bedroom again. No time to delay. Sashay over to the bed, hips swaying with practised anticipation. He follows, unsheathed.
They fuck.
He leaves.
She lies there for a long while, basking in the fleeting fullness, before that, too, slips away.
. . .
. . .
It does.
. . .
. . .
Get up, clean up, quick rinse. Got to get the dog in before it gets too dark out, after all. Glance at the clock—three past the dusk, should get to bed soon, going to be another full day tomorrow, after all. Feed the dog, grab the bowtie and throw it back up on the rack. Check the icebox again, golly, won’t we need more stuff, eh pooch?
Head’s thrumming with exhaustion. Think about it tomorrow. It’ll be here soon enough.
Bathroom again. Check the mirror, no grey hairs today—mother always said that would be the sign. But better get to bed, those circles are looking darker by the day.
Bedroom again. Kick off the covers, flop. Stare at the ceiling for a long while, mind blank as canvases. After awhile, realise it’s late—mustn’t be late!—and hit the light.
Lie awhile longer as the curtains fall, one by one.
Sleep without dreaming of the dawn.
