He gazed upon his belongings, now piled against the edges of the rooms that constituted his new domain. Most were still sealed in plain brown boxes marked according to their rightful location, and sat on creaky wooden floors, scuffed and scratched with old age.
Deep Note (for that is our stallion protagionist's name) hadn't expected to live his dream life upon first arriving in Manehattan, but had expected to live somewhere less "lived-in". He looked out the grimy window in the center of the wall oppasite his front door. "Noon" he muttered, more to break tbe silence than anything. "If I get to work now, I should get the bedroom and kitchen done before dinner-time, then I can make something edible" he thought aloud once more, eyeing the discarded fast-food wrappers with disgust, more upset that he had actually eaten ythe greasy stuff than anything.
Quieter than one would expect from a stallion of his large musculer build, he lumbered toward the room he had designated 'bedroom'. Even though it's brother next to it had been branded a 'bedroom' by the realtor, it was destined to be Deep Note's office. He opened the door to his new sleeping quarters to find a fair number of boxes lining the wall on the right, which he had nearly hit with the door, and a disassembled bed frame, boxspring, and mattress on the farthest wall. His oak dresser was in a scattered about the room. Humming a tune from a Beathooven symphony, he began to reassemble his furniture.
After having a something to sleep on, and a something for clothing storage, his work tune changed to a Tchaitrotsky piece, and he began unpacking the boxes. After a few boxes of clothing and clutter, he found a large flat box and started the difficult task of hanging his mirror.
The last of the carefully folded clozthing was placed with care into the dresser, now with a hunk of thin rectanguler reflective glass above it, affixed in such a way as to show the user from hoof to mane. He stared at himself for a while, his brillient blue eyes the same shade as sapphire were framed by his long, dark brown, curly mane (usually a fair bit tidier but the move had had an effect on his hygeine), and his tan coat. Poking out of his mane was a pointed, pale gold horn. He stared at his own eyes, the eyes so many young fillies had fallen in love with, only to fail misrably at courtship, and leave heartbroken. Although it was not visible, for his coat had grown over it, there was a scar on his shoulder, a cruel bastardizition of a cutie mark.
He heard creaking coming from his upstairs neighbor's flat, which broke him out of his unintentionally self-induced trance. He glanced out the window of his bedroom, quickly judging the time. "Better hurry if I want to cook food tonight." he muttered, rushing in his oddly quiet fashion towards the kitchen. His work tune changed dramatically to a much more high paced number, originally a piano concerto, quickly putting pot, pans, plates and spices in the proper place.
As if on cue, his stomach rumbled with the completion of his task. He quickly procured a white button-up shirt from his dresser, a tweed jacket from his closet, fixed his mane as best as he could, and left in search of a grocery store.
He returned five minutes later, having remembered his saddlebags.
The streets were not quire as crowded as they had been earlier in the day, and he asked a group of ponies where the closest grocery store was. Without much incident he found his way to 'The Oat & Out', a small food and genaral goods store.
He collected enough food to last him a few days at the least, and headed to the cashier's stand. Their were two others ahead of him so he skimmed some of the headlines of the nearby magazine rack, having exhausted that, he look around the store some more.
It reminded him a lot of the store his aunt had run one town over from his home town, same general color scheme, same rampent wood finish. He tried to think back... 'yup, smells the same too'. Suddenly, his eyes fell upon the cashier, his jaw nearly dropped.
The cashier had to be the best looking pony he had ever seen. The next few minutes, consisting of waiting in line and checking out, it seemed as though reality had become ethereal, as if he could float away at any moment. He could feel the blush pounding away in his cheeks.
He was still fairly flushed as he ate his dinner, dandelion soup, as he could not forget the ruby red of the cashier's eyes, the pure, snow white coat, and deep thick royal blue mane. The pony had worn not but a simple burlap apron which covered the flanks, obscuring it's cutie mark, and it's back, but Deep had noticed the bulge of pegasis wings rather easily. Only once had he felt like this over a pony, and thinking about that made him instinctively glance at the scar on his shoulder to ensure it was not a bloody wound again.
Remembering he needed his office tomorrow, the the hummed melody that had quickened his pace in the kitchen started once more, as he marched to the pile of broxes atop an oak desk in his office. In a flash Deep Note had a reasonable facsimilie to his old office set up. Glancing around the room, he saw it, the familier soft black case, which he knew held two bows, two blocks of rosin, and a large stringed instrument, an image of which adorned his flank.
He unzipped the case, pulled out a bow, and rosined it up. Cradling the upright bass, he pulled the bow across the the largest string, a bright green mist surrounding the handle of the bow and the strings, and received rich deep E in return. Testing his strings, he found little need to retune after the move. His thoughts drifted as he played a slow mournful piece, but picked up pace once his thoughts decided to focus on a certain pony he had met today.
He was drifting in and out of the music, when he heard it, strings vibrating, not his own, but another's. He played on, and the violin played with him, complimenting his style like the two had been playing together for years. For an hour they played, and Deep loved every minute of it, as any who have done similier would tell you, myself included.
Then, it stopped, and Deep heard a muffled voice say "Good night.", never one to be rude, Deep thanked the kind unseen violinist and bade him good night.
That night Deep slept soundly, with ruby red eyes, a royal blue mane, and the sounds of a bass and violin, all dancing in his head.
