Chance

At the time, I was... between jobs, so to speak. It was almost two weeks after the shop where I worked went out of business. About half of my time was spent lounging around at Ambrosia. Drinking isn't exactly the best pastime when you're living on your savings, I know, but if you can stand diluted liquor, a few bits can go a long way.

Ambrosia was a quiet little bar near the edge of Ponyville. Its centerpiece was an old jukebox that had a noticeable hole in the left side from a particularly nasty hoof-fight back in the day. It's a rather ornery piece of work, you have to give it a good smack before it starts running. But the owner-slash-bartender of the place, Spritzer, seems to have a soft spot for the old relic, which is the only reason it hadn't found its way to the junkyard yet.

When you spend as much time there as I do, you get to meet different sorts of ponies. There's someone in particular who I'll always find especially memorable. She appeared one night just an hour before closing time. I was on my last glass of watered-down beer for the night, when through the door walked what looked for all the world like a school-aged filly dressed as a nurse for Nightmare Night. She could barely even reach the top of the counter.

“We don't serve minors,” said Spritzer.

Before the old stallion could even finish the sentence, she'd pulled out an ID and slapped it on the counter. I was sitting on a bar stool about two seats away, but I could read it well enough. Cotton Puff, it said. Ponyville General Hospital. Her cutie mark was a cross surrounded by hearts. Just about everyone at the hospital had that same cutie mark.

Spritzer took the ID and looked at it closely, turning it over in his hooves. His disbelief was evident by the way he arched his brow.

The young lady got the hint. “Oh, for the love of... this is the third place I've been to tonight!”

“Sorry, miss, I can't take any chances.”

As she took her ID card back, I decided to chime in. A part of me, at least, seemed to believe her. “I'll vouch for her.”

“Are you sure about that? If anything happens, it's on your head.”

“It's a risk I'm willing to take.”

“Alright...” He turned to the lady and asked, “So, what'll it be, then?”

“A shot of your finest whiskey.” She glanced toward me, then said, “Give him one too, on me.”

“Oh, that won't be necessary,” I said, gesturing at my glass, “I'm quite content.”

“Come on, I'm trying to show you my gratitude here.”

I could offer no further protest. “If you insist.”

***

“So...”, she said, “I guess the polite thing to do would be to ask for your name?”

“Blank Slate. And I believe your name is Cotton Puff, correct?”

“Yeah, but just call me Cotton. I don't like using that other part. It sounds childish.”

“Alright, then. Cotton it is.”

After the introductions, we commenced with the usual small talk—that is, what we each did for a living. I fibbed and claimed to be a part-timer (of what, I did not specify). She, on the other hand, was studying medicine.

“I've actually got an internship at the hospital. I'm getting my education and job experience at the same time.”

“You're training to become a nurse, then?”

“Doctor, actually.” Her face soured as she said those words. “A lot of ponies get that mixed up.”

“...is something the matter?”

“It's just... no, nothing. It's fine, forget about it.”

Now, I wasn't one to press an issue when they don't want to talk about it, so I let the subject drop. I fiddled with the empty shot glass in my hooves, trying to find something else to converse about, when I noticed her whiskey remained untouched.

“Aren't you going to drink that?”, I asked.

“Huh? Oh! Of course I am!” She took the glass and grinned at me. “Alright. Here goes.” She finished her drink in one gulp... and promptly began coughing and sputtering. “What--” Another cough.

“Are you alright?”, I asked.

“I feel like my throat is on fire.”

“Liquor tends to do that when you take it in too quickly. Have you ever had a drink before?”

I could see her face reddening, which I was sure was more from embarrassment than anything else.

“I'll take that as a no.”

“It's not my fault that nobody ever invites me out for stuff like this!”

I shrugged. “There's a first time for everything.”

***

As you might expect from somepony who was little more than half the size of the average adult, Cotton Puff was something of a lightweight. All she had was that one shot, but that seemed to be enough to reduce her to barely-coherent rambling about a quarter of an hour later.

“This one time,” she said, “I ordered a tulip petal sandwich. They sell the best sandwiches. Why do they call them that, sandwiches? They're not made of sand, and it's not made by witches... didn't there used to be a witch around here?”

“Only if you count the zebra that came to town several months ago.”

“They say she's a nice person, even though she's weird and... spooky, and stuff.” Then she turned at me with a droopy sort of smile and said, “You're a nice person.”

“Oh...” The compliment caught me off-guard. “Really?”

“Yeah, you are! I mean it, you're the nicest pony I've ever met.”

“Well, then, thank you. You're not so bad yourself.”

“Not so bad?” She stood up with an indignant look in her eyes. “I will have you know, I'm way more than just 'not so bad'! I'm going to do something so great that nobody will ever underestimate me again!”

“Alright, so what feat of greatness do you have in mind?”

“Well... I don't know, but that's not important!”

***

Time flies, so they say, and soon Spritzer reminded us that it was almost time for him to close up. I looked up at the clock and saw both hands approaching 12. My impromptu companion placed a few bits on the counter, as did I.

In what I hoped was not yet an antiquated gesture, I held the door open for Cotton Puff as she stepped out into the cool night air. Our homes were in separate directions, and so we parted ways right outside the doors of Ambrosia.

“Thanks again,” she said. Her cheeks were blushing from what I assumed was the cold. “You know, for sticking up for me.”

“Think nothing of it, 'twas was my pleasure. I should thank you for the company.”

“Well, I'd better get going. It was nice meeting you, Slate.”

“Likewise.” I bowed, and said, “Au revoir, miss Cotton.”

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kamil

kamil #1 · Feb 1st, 2013 · · ·

Well this could go somewhere interesting... Or it could go nowhere, but we'll see.

thewaffler

thewaffler #2 · Feb 1st, 2013 · · ·

Yeah, this story kinda hits home for me bro. I get carded every time I go to a bar, club or buy lottery tickets, not because of my height but because my face looks the same as it did when I was 12 and I'm 23 now. The same question of, "how old are you," gets old fast. I have to grow an itchy beard just to avoid being carded. This fic speaks to me dude. Cotton is relatable in that aspect and the fact she is an intern at a hospital and I failed out of med school.