Haute Couture

Past a certain age, crashing on a friend’s couch no longer feels like a slumber party.

Rarity was trying to scavenge some semblance of a skincare routine from Twilight’s guest bathroom when she stumbled upon some interesting light reading in a basket atop the toilet. The book was smaller than the usual fare Twilight indulged in. It had no title or author credits—just a uniform red hardcover.

As the frankenstein moisturizers and cleansers did their work, Rarity skimmed through the book. By the fifth page, she found herself nodding along. By the seventh, she was seeing parallels. By the tenth, she was getting ideas.

“Twilight!” Rarity didn’t both washing her face off before tromping through the castle. “Twilight, I have questions. Questions about literature!” she hastened to add.

Twilight shot around the corner so fast her royal shoes kicked up sparks.