I think everyone wants a happy ending. Everyone wants a storybook love. Everyone wants a knight in shining armor, a glittering key to a house on the shore, a lifetime of peace and prosperity.
What I want, more than anything, is a warm body to lie next to. A laugh to listen to, a pair of eyes to get lost in, a mouth to kiss. A shoulder to lean on, a shoulder to cry on, a shoulder to help carry my burdens. I reach for the phone, holding the receiver like a live grenade. I think about making a phone call. I don’t actually make the phone call, of course; I just trace the line of coiled wire connecting handset to dialer.
I haven’t made the phone call in a week. I’ve barely left my apartment in that time, sick to my stomach with implacable anxiety. Held down by some maelstrom of violent fear swirling and churning in my gut, I’ve been unable to do much but slink out to the corner store. I didn’t think things would ever get this complicated. I thought that I would continue to be a costume designer for the rest of my life.
My therapist describes that line of thinking as resignation. I’ve resigned myself to a simple life. I disagree. This is a decision I make personally; day over day, week over week, month over month. If I chose not to fall in love, that should be my own business. I shouldn’t need to suffer through my choices being carved apart and analyzed like that. I should be allowed to be happy with a quiet life of steady work.
Instead, I fell in love. It didn’t happen suddenly like my romance books describe. It didn’t happen terribly slowly either; it was a fade into a steady gradient of emotion. It was a business call turning into a personal call. It was the personal call going a little longer each time, a little deeper into the hearts of the ponies having it. She was dangerously easy to talk to. I chalked it up to a sort of clinical likeability — she needed to be this way because of the nature of her business. After enough time spent talking to her, I started to think it was something else.
I started to think she loved me too.
I jump when the phone rings in my hoof, nearly throwing it across the room. I press the receiver, picking up the call. I’m expecting something from one of my business partners, a textile importer from Gryphonia who handles most of the heavier fabrics I need.
“Coco Pommel speaking.”
“Coco! You haven’t called in ages, dear. Is anything the matter?” I suck in a deep breath, my hoof hovering above the receiver. With a press of the switch the call would be over and I would be alone with my thoughts again. I decide that maybe hanging up on one of the most important mares in my life wouldn’t be the wisest course of action.
I release the breath I was holding, urging my nerves to settle. “I’m alright. Just been keeping busy; you know how it is.”
The silence on the other line tells me that no, she does not ‘know how it is.’ The pause isn’t very long, just long enough to make me seriously consider cutting the cord entirely. “I was going to be heading up to Manehattan this weekend, if you’re free. I understand things may be getting pretty busy for you shortly, but...”
I swallow a lump, my mouth painfully dry. “I. Don’t know. I’m expecting a call back from a client, and—”
She makes no attempt to hide the disappointment in her voice. “Oh! Of course, of course. I know how things are in the business, as it were. I just thought I’d ask, that's all.”
Silence crept back into the conversation, draining whatever warmth or joy that might’ve been present. All that was left was a cold vacuum, an empty space devoid of anything but quiet sorrow. “Actually, I’ll make time. I can always make time for you, Rarity.”
I like to think that the ponies at the Manehattan weather factory have a natural sense of dramatic irony. A voice in my head tells me that the storm clouds looming large on the horizon are a sign, a threat, a companion. I smother that voice with another deep swig of black coffee.
I don’t know if I like how it tastes. I don’t know if I’ve ever liked how it tastes, really. You get used to a certain level of bitterness in your life, I suppose. You get used to having to cut corners. No sugar, no cream; just hot water and pre-ground coffee. I take another sip and try to think about my future.
I've been doing that a lot recently. It’s kind of terrifying, I admit. I used to forget sometimes that there’s a life beyond the next project. Suri called me short-sighted — I think I’d have to agree. Business is going well; I’m set to start a contract with the Manehattan Grand Theatre Company this fall. I remember watching Rent! when I was a little filly. The lights and the music and the costumes left such an indelible mark on my developing brain back then. To think now that I would be in charge of costume design entirely on my own? It’s something of a dream come true.
I let out a nervous little giggle, prompting the mare next to me to direct a curious look my way. “Coco, if you’ve just remembered a joke you are obligated to tell it to me.”
I shake my head, nestling into the crook of her neck. The warmth of her body and the gentle floral scent of her perfume wash over me. For a moment the storm clouds wash away and I forget where I am; no longer sitting on a bench in Union Square but instead in the comfort of a Ponyville summer home. “No jokes here, Rarity. Just thinking is all.”
“Mmm.” A noncommittal noise from anypony else tells me that she, too, is ‘just thinking.’ “About?”
I look down at the lid of my coffee cup, studying the shape of the stains around the mouth. “Suri. Even after everything that’s happened, it all just seems. Early.”
“Do you think you’re going to go? I can make you an outfit, if you’d like.” Rarity chuckles, the motion shaking me gently. “You’d look pretty good in all-black.”
I peel myself away from Rarity, downing the rest of my coffee in a few desperate gulps. “Absolutely not. I can think of better ways to spend our time than a funeral.”
Rarity nearly threw herself onto me, leaning her back onto her as she sprawled across the bench. “Will you attend my funeral?”
I look down at the despondent mare laying in my lap and smile. “I’ll think about it.”
I guess I never really thought this would happen. I never thought this moment would be real. You become used to daydreams as self-defense, a desperate attempt at putting distance between your fragile psyche and a world that would see it ground into dust. I never thought that the morning sun on my coat could feel this good.
Still, breathing in the Upper Manehattan air from the window in the kitchen was like drinking ambrosia. It was sweet and filling, permeating my very soul with a cleansing light. I hum to herself as I make coffee. It was a practiced motion, years of early morning muscle memory guiding my hooves.
I bring two cups into the bedroom with me — one black and one with a single sugarcube and a splash of cream. I set them on the nightstand before nudging my girlfriend awake gently, hoping the smell of coffee does the rest of the work. It’s usually nice to sleep in a little later than this but we’ve got a busy day ahead of ourselves.
First is attending the opening of a new wing in the history museum down the way — she and I have been waiting for construction to finish for a year now. There’s nothing more thrilling than art and artifacts from the late Byzantine period. After that is business; consultation with customers and a meeting with the Manehattan Grand Theatre Company.
It’s funny to think that there’s still work to be done. Every day spent like this feels like a vacation. Every day I wake up in her embrace makes me worried that the week is almost over and it’ll be back to the grind again, hundreds of miles stretching out between us. That day never comes, but the fear still remains.
She finally stirs, pulling the sleeping mask off her face and blinking slowly in the soft light that trickles through the blinds. I smile and she smiles back and in that moment I have everything I could ever ask for.
I lean down and press a kiss against her forehead, just below the base of her horn. “Good morning, beautiful. Ready to get the day started?”
She stretches out in bed, taking a moment to respond as the rest of the sleep slowly leaves her body. “I think I need ten minutes spent cuddling you before I even consider leaving the bed.”
I giggle, moving to the other side of the bed and sliding under the covers. “I think I can accept these terms.”
