I stand before a certain shrine.
I've relocated it to a far corner of my closet.
None of my friends stand behind me, as they did before. I dismissed them, not too coldly I hope. I also hope that they would understand. There are some things a pony simply has to do on her own, after all. Surely, they would not disagree with that much, I hope?
I touch the curtain. Closing my eyes, I bid it curl up into a bouncing bundle, and stride inside. Like a curious schoolfilly I look around for a little bit, for nostalgia's sake.
Posters of him hang everywhere in the little cove. It is like looking at who I used to be. I am quite embarrassed of her, to say the least. I absolutely cannot stand any image of him now. His posters roll themselves up. Now he cannot be seen.
My face curls into a snarl. Now that I've met the real him, the thought of keeping a bundle of his mane drives me to repulsion.
On the curtain hangs a backstage pass to one of his trot-and-talks. Also on the curtain are non-backstage tickets to other events he hosts. All of these are unused. All of these are now stripped off the curtains.
I look at the items floating before me, and heave a sigh.
I admit that I've still lingering feelings for him. Even the sound of his name awakens a pang of longing within this breast o' mine. But alas! It was not meant to be. O', cruel Fate!
But that is the very reason why I do this. I will be strong.
All his items, everything that ever was associated with him, enter, one after the other, into a rather sizable pail of... 'rejects', as I prefer to call them. I intend to empty this pail properly first thing in the morning. At my unrequited crush I sigh wistfully, mourning what was never meant to be, before levitating the pail's cover on.
I stand now alone, in an empty shrine. All is quiet and still. Only the steady hum of the air conditioning backdrops my musings.
She opened my eyes to an important realization that day. I am sure you recall the means by which she did. She staged a catwalk, my usual affair. I am sure you recall the dress she wore — it was one of mine, a forgotten thing.
In an accident, the dress in question was soiled by one of my most fearsome enemies: MUD! Immediately, I asked my little assistant to fetch the usual accessories for my usual ministrations.
Trenderhoof and I had our parting of ways. She oversaw the whole affair.
That was the moment I realized.
Trenderhoof left for his room in the local inn. She left to tend to the rest of her farmwork.
Not long after, my little Spikey-Wikey returned with what I had requested. In each of his hands was a bucket sloshing with boiling-hot water. The third was on his back. He was biting a plastic cup containing the second of my requests: a powdered ounce of detergent.
I levitate a plain ponnequin onto the table.
Next was the dress, the very same she wore that day.
In my magic it was held, just like I hope she would someday come to hold me. It is unwashed, exactly as I prefer it. Now it is the sole object inside my shrine.
When I look at it now, I think of her. I lean in, and sniff. I exhale. The smell of sweat and work epitomizes her. I love it. But it will fade. My love will not. On my weaker days, I will put the dress on, and bind my smell with hers. And I will love the scent of... us.
Already the temptation is too strong.
I close my eyes, the better to dream. Were my younger, more naïve self to see me as I am now, she'd think me to jest. But when I say that I dream of getting my hooves dirty, I speak only truly. I dream of getting my hooves, my everything dirty, all for her and with her at my side. We would frolic gaily in the rain and mud. We would touch hooves while walking through Ponyville on quiet Sunday mornings. We would care little for what they say.
Alas I am weak. What would everypony say? 'Twould be the scandal of the century, darling! The fashionista and the local farm-mare? Together? I shudder to think of the ramifications. For one, I would be blacklisted, surely, for consorting with such baseborn —
Hmph! It is hardly fair.
And I refuse to think of her in that way anymore.
I shake my head. How could I have been so blind? Even Trenderhoof was able to see it, as plain as day. She was covered in the dirt and muck of the day. She was sweaty from working the fields that morning.
My mouth waters. Her lone ponytail — ahem, other ponytail, darling — swayed to and fro, as she shook her head, back and forth. She gave no lucky pony in particular an entreating look, accentuated by very... very... weakening eyelash-flutters.
"Rarity, are you in here making out with your dresses again?"
Just a moment, darling, I whisper.
"That's not much of a whisper, Sis. Rarity, you said five minutes ago you'd be ready. I wanna go to Hay Burger now! ...Hey, what are you even doing in here anyway?"
As she walks in, I close the curtains. Oh, Sweetie Belle. Do mind that tone of yours. It is most unbecoming of a proper mare.
Turning, she starts to walk away now.
"If you don't leave now, I'm telling Applebloom everything I just heard."
Just give me another five minutes, darling, I say to her.
Shaking her head, she leaves.
I disappear through the curtains. There, I caress the sole mud stain that remains on the dress to this day.
Another five minutes, I whisper.
Author's Note
Yours truly,
Rarity
