Ground Coffee

Ground Coffee
By Celefin

Guess I passed out at some point. Nice and dark, until now.

The blessed darkness is replaced by two narrow, blurry images that can’t quite decide if they want to merge into one or circle each other. “Urgh,” someone pronounces to this shitty world in general. I think it was me.

There is an irritating noise in the background, stuff clinking and doors being opened and closed. Whatever time it is, it’s too early for that, so I close my eyes again. That lets me concentrate on the smell of the room. Stale sex and stale coffee. Or maybe that’s just me.

“Urgh,” I repeat, with more emphasis on the ‘urgh’ part this time. I can feel my pulse in my skull, my neck has locked up and, judging by the taste, I think a squirrel has died in my mouth tonight or something.

A careful touch to my shoulder. “Hey Dark, are you okay?”

Oh right. Oscillate Blue is still here. Brilliant question. I force my eyes open and look up from my position on the table. Yep, the table. Ah. With my muzzle in a little puddle of drool. Explains the parched throat and pain in the neck.

There he is, looking a little worse for wear and honest to goodness concerned. Why is he even still around? I’d prefer to die in silence, with no onlookers. “Gnrf.”

“I cleaned up your kitchen and I found the coffee. Should be ready in a few minutes. Extra strong.” He’s sounding hopeful. Hopeful.

I turn my head a little so I can see the room, still tilted ninety degrees. My flat is tidy. What, and I can’t stress this enough, the fuck? I lift my head and wipe my sticky muzzle with my fetlock. That fetlock still smells of taking care of myself. Yuck.

“Uh, thanks?” That somehow doesn’t cover it. “I need a fucking shower.”

Don’t know what he expected, but he looks a bit taken aback. “Oh. Right.” And a little ashamed. Eh? “Do you need any-”

“No.” Can’t deal with this conversational shit right now. Warm water first. Talk later. I heave myself upright and stagger towards the bathroom. Fuck, I’m filthy.

May have kicked the door shut behind me with a little too much force. Fucking hangover. Ow. that bang was loud. Anyway. Shower. Now.

***

Of course the warm water runs out just when my neck muscles are about to relax again. Oh, and right after I’ve finished shampooing my mane. Of course. Fuck. I swear, my stingy bastard of a landlord is cutting down on the heating every month.

At least I cleaned my tail first - what a fucking, disgusting mess. Even though I wiped most of it off right after. Like, ugh. Must have been fucking ages since Ozzy’s been laid last time. No wonder he passed out.

I finish as fast as I can, but I’m already freezing when I’m done. Dammit. At least I’m awake now, so there’s that. The disheveled mare that looks back at me from the mirror still looks like shit. But not undead anymore, so that’s an improvement.

I drop the wet towel on the floor and go back into the kitchen. Try and see if I can achieve breakfast.

“Hey Ozzy, I think I’m alive again. Thanks for tidying up my mess,” I say with a smile. I mean it.

Ozzy is nowhere to be seen, neither here nor in my bedchamber. Instead there’s a note on the table, next to a cold cup of coffee and a soggy strawberry jam toast. Oh.

I’m sorry about last night. But thanks. Maybe see you? -Oz

How poetic.

He got the coffee right at least, and I’m not going to complain about edible food I didn’t have to prepare myself. Still tired, but actually beginning to feel like an equine again. Now all I need is a real bed for a few hours and I’ll be back to my sparkly self.

I pause at the doorstep and shake my head. The kind idiot even made the bed. What did he expect? A proposal? I scratch myself behind an ear and yawn. For a moment, my mind meanders to the bottle of brandy in the drawer of my bedside table.

Nah. I have no idea what time of day it actually is, but it’s not the right time for that. I let myself sink down on the mattress. The bedsheet smells of cheap detergent and laundry room, matching my cheap shampoo.

Actually wouldn’t have minded the scent of another pony beside me right now. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Nope, still only cheap detergent, no Ozzy. Well, more bedspace for me. I yawn and stretch out, my right shoulder and both knees on my hindlegs popping.

Hello dear pillow. I’ve missed you. And even with only myself in it, the bed’s gonna be nice and warm soon enough.

***

The grey light of a rainy afternoon fills my flat when I wake up again several hours later. Distant thunder. I feel… pretty good, actually. I roll out of my bed and stretch, one leg at a time. Even my shoulder muscles aren’t complaining anymore.

I ignore the overflowing laundry basket in the bathroom and splash some cold water in my face. “You could have been nicer to Ozzy, he didn’t exactly do anything wrong,” I tell the mare in the mirror.

She bites her lower lip for a second but shrugs. “He wasn’t exactly great either.”

“Mmm. Fair enough.”

That settled, I go and look for coffee. Luckily, Ozzy made a lot more than necessary, so I can just warm it up again. The signature sour and slightly rubbery taste of reheated mediocre coffee goes well with a single piece of dry toast and a small bowl of even drier haychips. I’ll call it breakfast.

Some music would be nice, so I flick the switch on my wave box and the room is filled with an energetic, upbeat song from the newly popular Amber, Birch, Bracken & Alfalfa Quartett. I switch it off again. Guys, if you insist on making that crap, at least find a shorter band name.

Through the half open bathroom door, I spot that little scrap of paper on the floor. Hayseed Lane 26. Actually not quite sure why I’ve hung on to that. Even memorized it. Gripping my lukewarm mug with one fetlock, I close my eyes, drag the tip of my other hoof down the length of my muzzle and sigh.

Green eyes. Wings.

I blink. Where the fuck did that come from again? Strangely vivid as well. Shaking my head, I get up and stretch again. I need some air.

The staircase is murky as always, due to the cracked light crystals on the lower flight of stairs. Been like that for months now. It makes for a stark contrast when I open the door, with late afternoon sunshine glistening on the wet street.

So someone has decided the city’s been hosed down sufficiently by now. The council doing it on the cheap again, waiting for a wild weather system to move in from the sea and only paying to have it dispersed before the drains overflow. Good thing too, a week or so more and we’d have to hire a pegasus to remove the dust from the wave array. The charged wires seem to attract the stuff. And pigeon shit.

Taking deep breaths of the clean, fresh air, I make my way down to Mignonette Market. It’s only some twenty minutes over the cobblestone streets of old Manehattan.

There’s the little bronze pony in the fountain, forever dipping her glittering leaf gold cloth into a marble vat. Behind it, the three storey Manehattan FM building.

I look up at the towering crystal array of the wave transmitter. The nodes pulse with a soft pink glow, and every now and then a drop of water explodes in a miniature rainbow halo when it hits the array just right. Pretty.

Too bad the actual program being transmitted right now is a bit shit.

Oh well. I turn my back on my place of work and head over to The Dyer’s Den on the opposite side of the plaza. The Den was already here when this was the actual dyer’s quarter. Good old-fashioned Equestrian food. And, most importantly, also take-away. I see no point in paying extra just to sit inside.

Unfortunately, it’s the time of day when most craftsponies have packed up their tools and realise they can’t be bothered to cook dinner. There are three painters in front of me, bickering about whose turn it is to pay. One of them is carrying paint containers on both sides of his barrel. The right one is slowly dripping white paint onto the cobblestones.

I carefully step around the splotches.

Now it’s their turn and they haven’t even decided on what to eat yet. Sweet fucking Celestia. Me and the pony behind the counter share a look. Good thing that isn’t me. I’d be fired after one day for violence in the workplace. I already know I’m going to have the garfish on meadow sweet and spring onions. Need a real meal after last night.

They are taking their sweet, fucking time.

There’s a noticeboard next to the menu. Best place to force anyone to look at it to preserve their sanity while waiting for ponies like those three. Hm. A lost horn ring (family heirloom, yadda yadda), somepony selling a sofa (cat not included), a job advert for the Power Shower roof cleaning company (only pegasi, preferably with good pressure manipulation skills and experience with tornado dissipation). Huh. What exactly are these ponies doing?

Oh... A missing pony notice about a young mare. Pretty little thing, yellow coat and blueish green mane and tail. Pale yellow eyes. Daffodil Dawn, last seen two days ago at New Harvest Hill bus station. She’s wearing a big spring green bow in her mane. If you can give any information as to-

-and it’s my turn. Finally.

I decide to eat my meal at one of the tables around the fountain, although it’s still too wet to sit down. The Den rarely disappoints. It’s a small mountain of food and it’s bloody delicious. The garfish is prepared to perfection, the big green bones easy to remove from the white, firm meat. Even when only using your lips. The spring onions are a dream and the meadowsweet is still just chewy enough to be filling. The deep fried rapeseed flowers are a nice touch as well.

I bring back the empty container to collect my quarter bit, but decide against it. “Give it to the chef, that was perfect.” Damn, I’m generous today. Will you look at this good mare?

This good mare needs some good coffee. I think I’ll check the Marerabian and see if the cute zebra is working. Get some distraction.

***

Of course she isn’t. Probably too early. Sweet Luna, I’m bored. I hate days off.

The barkeep is an ash grey unicorn stallion with a pale orange mane. A washed out version of myself, looking even more bored than the original. He’s got the coffee making down pat though, and that’s really all that matters.

Lake Hwassan Red. Deep chestnut, bordering on black, with a dark red oily sheen on top. Peppery, almost spicy, fine mineral notes, no acidic aftertaste. A hint of smoke. Way above standard amount of caffeine, like a friendly punch to the muzzle. Good stuff. I think I’ve found a new favourite.

I take a slow sip, rolling the divine liquid around in my mouth. “Hey, you’re good at this,” I say to the grey stallion, without looking up from my mug.

“Thanks,” he replies without looking up from the newspaper he’s reading.

I already like him.

A little while later, I push the empty mug in his direction. “Can you make me another?”

He gives a little sigh. “Sure thing.” Coffee, grinder, spoons and kettle dance in his field and move into position. A poker stokes the coal fire with lazy thrusts. He doesn’t even look up more than once. Neat.

I look over my shoulder. There’s only a few other customers, two of them students with lots of books and stuff spread out on a table. Tired but busy. Poor bastards. Good thing I dropped that bullshit years ago.

The last golden orange rays of the setting sun bathe half the room in their warm glow, while the soft light of the crystal lamps slowly comes on in the darker half. The smell of coffee drifts past me. I smile.

“Got any Zebrican brandy?” I ask while propping my chin up on a fetlock. Feeling adventurous here.

The stallion levitates my coffee and sets it down in front of me without so much as a ripple on its surface. I think I’m in love.

He finally looks at me, with the ghost of a smile on his muzzle. “Yeahhh… what are ye after?”

“Something with fruit, not too sweet, like, match the minerals of the Hwassan?”

Now he’s actually smiling. He slowly walks along the shelves, pulling a couple bottles out with his field. They float down in a little loop, each one stopping in mid air before him while he inspects it. A Ferris wheel of fine spirits.

The last one appears to be what he’s looking for. “This one might be to yer liking.” It floats over to me, uncorks itself and tilts so I can get a good look at the label and a sniff.

Tokara 10, South Zebrica. Huh. Never heard about it. The bottle has the shape of a raindrop and its contents are a dark, honey amber. Smells enticing. “Well, I trust you.”

“Five bits,” he says with a smirk.

Holy shit. Well. “Make it a double.”

He nods in appreciation. “Coming right up.”

Mmm. Vanilla, peach, and raisins… and a slightly peppery, spicy finish that leads right over to the next sip of coffee that has those same undertones. If I ask him now, would he marry me? Doesn’t have to be good in bed.

Which reminds me of something. “You have a city map by any chance?”

“Yep. Plans tonight?”

Was that a hint of disappointment? “Maybe.” What are the chances a perfect guy like this isn’t either taken or gay?

Ugh. Hayseed Lane is on the northern outskirts of Manehattan, along the coast. The last bus station is at least a twenty minute walk away from there. Of course, when you’re a ...gorgeous… pegasus, that doesn’t mean shit to you. It’s a daytrip for me.

Well, fuck. I take a sip of my brandy and give a slow sigh, pushing the map away.

“Mind if I smoke?” The barkeeper gives me an adoring and adorable look.

I shake my head. “Just keep it away from my drinks.”

“Sure thing.”

I look from him to my brandy and coffee. Who needs sex anyway?

Nah.

Not tonight.