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// Possibilities 
// Story: Archival Quality 
// by Vic Fontaine 
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You think of an archive and you think of dusty, stuffy things. The patient records room at the doctor’s office. That huge wall of file cabinets in the back of the public library. Just about everything inside of a history museum. I think we all have our own archives too - at the bottom of a closet, or neatly packed away in attics and basements. Or perhaps it’s sitting on a mantle, or hanging on a wall.

Vastly different places or objects, but all with one trait in common: They store things. They may be old, or faded, or even ancient. But at some point they were important. They meant something to someone, somewhere. And they may become important again in the future. Maybe. No one knows for sure, but it’s always possible.

Perhaps that’s it. Archives don’t just store things, they store possibilities. What once was, and what could be again.

Possibly.

But what if an archive is never reopened at all?

“Bon dia, señor. May I get you something to drink?”

I barely suppressed a twitch at the unexpected voice. “O-oh! Um, sorry. Guess I wasn’t paying attention.” I chuckled at myself and ran a hoof through my mane, which also bought me a few seconds to refocus. “Drink, you said?” The waitress, who I now noticed was a Earth pony, nodded. “Right. Um, just a coffee please. Dark roast, if you have it.”

“A fresh batch just finished brewing a minute ago,” she replied. “Cream and sugar?”

“Yes, please.”

“Got it. Be right back with that, señor.” The waitress smiled quickly before darting back inside. She returned a minute later with a steaming cup of coffee, along with a small plate of sugar cubes and fresh cream. “And here you are… dark roast coffee, cream, and some sugar.”

I nodded appreciatively as she set everything down. Part of me was marveling at the balance and dexterity that she had to keep everything balanced on her back and not spill a single drop. Now that I got a better look at her though, there was also a part of me thinking about how much this young mare reminded me of her.

Maybe it was her wavy red hair, or her somewhat timid demeanor. Or, as I watched her slip around to the other side of the table to lay out the cream and sugar, maybe it was the little sway in her hips. Whatever it was, it brought me back to that one night, that one dance. That one mare. "Where'd she go?" I muttered.

"Expecting another guest?"

I snapped out of it in time to see the waitress giving me a quizzical look. "Huh?"

"Sorry, but it sounded like you were looking for somepony. Were you expecting somepony to join you this morning?"

So much for my muttering under my breath. I quite obviously cleared my throat, if only to try and fight back an embarrassed blush. "O-oh, no no! Not at all. I, uh, guess I was just lost in thought for a moment there."

She waved it off with a smile. "No worries. Now, would you like something to eat as well?"

"Now that you mention it..." I grabbed the menu from in front of me and quickly scanned it. "Um... how about the veggie scramble. Easy on the cheese, if you could."

She scribbled on her pad while nodding along. "Veggie scramble, light on the cheese. Got it. Toast or fruit?"

"Fruit will be fine," I replied. My stomach may have been craving some thick, buttered toast, but the need to continue to fit into the waistline of my pants overruled that quickly. No one wants to see overweight flamenco dancers, I'm sure.

"Fruit it is then," the waitress said as she put away her pad. "We'll get that going right away. Enjoy the coffee and the great weather this morning."

I flashed a smile of my own as I began fixing up my coffee. "Will do, thanks." She returned the smile, then turned and made her way back inside.

While the caffeine began to work its magic and clear the last dregs of sleep from my system, I sat back in my chair and stared out into the streets; and from my seat underneath the cafe’s small patio, it was a great view indeed. Early morning clouds had dissipated quickly, leaving me and the rest of Marecelona with another beautiful and bright Sunday morning. The first round of swimmers were beginning to hit the nearby beach, joggers were passing to and fro, and the sounds of street musicians were already wafting through the air.

What’s more, last night's show had been another sellout, and while that meant extra tips for the whole crew, it also meant an encore after what would normally be the last dance of the evening. And as rewarding as it is to see the crowd roar in approval one more time, it's tartarus on your hooves. Those wooden stages are even less forgiving than they look, you know.

But truth be told, I’d trade all of it just to see her step into the tablao one more time, to watch her steal the stage with her power and grace, to dance side-by-side and wow the audience once again. To stare into her brilliant green eyes as cheers and red roses rain down upon us.

To breathlessly whisper her name into the night as we share an entirely different kind of Baile.

That was nearly two months ago. Yet I still get questions every week from new or occasional guests wondering if ‘that mare with the rose’ is performing that night. To hear some of the regulars talk, the Tablao Rosa, and maybe even the entire flamenco scene here, won’t be the same without her. A few have even given her a nickname: ‘Night Rose’.

Hyperbolic? Maybe. But not completely without merit either, because I know I’ll never have a dance partner even half as good as her. She was that good. That beautiful. That perfect.

As I finish a long sip of my coffee, I reach for my saddlebags on the adjacent seat and set it in my lap. A bit of fidgeting undoes the drawstring closure; it’d be easier if the Earth pony friendly aglets were still on the ends of the strings, but what’s a saddlebag without a bit of wear and tear to give it character?

In the bag is my usual Sunday supply run: fresh shoe polish, extra needle and thread for emergency wardrobe repairs, some pantry staples, and a fresh red rose. Long stem, of course. Every week I hit the corner market, then head down a few doors to the florist. Two months ago, I was literally a first time visitor to this particular florist’s shop. Now she greets me by name when I walk in. Most of the time she already has the flower dethorned and packed in a little water tube for the trip home when I arrive.

Just looking at it reignites the memories all over again, like fresh kindling on a smoldering campfire. The crowd, the dance, the duet, the music. I can see it all so clearly too. Grabbing that flawless rose from the ground and slipping it between gorgeous strands of pink and red hair. Staring into those emerald green eyes and trying not to melt under their fiery gaze. Closing the small gap between us and kissing a total stranger, yet feeling my heart explode as if I had kissed a soulmate instead.

I wonder again if I should throw caution - and my budget - to the wind and try to find her. Try to trace her steps, maybe find out who she is, or where she came from. She said she was a small town mare, and a florist no less. But how many small towns are there, and how many florists? Florists who dance flamenco, have red hair, and know as many moves off the dance floor as they do on? I guess that’d narrow the field… if I even knew where to start looking.

It’d be tilting at windmills for sure, and I’d likely end up fired from work, broke, and still no closer to finding the mare who still holds a piece of my heart - and my favorite green scarf. But the fact that I may yet find her, or that she may one day brighten my dance floor once more, fills me with equal parts hope and longing.

But then again, that’s the whole point of an archive, is it not? An archive saves what’s important - not just for memory’s sake, but in the hope that if it’s ever needed again, it’ll be there, ready and waiting.

That’s it then. That’s why I buy this flower each week, why I pin it to my shirt before each performance, and do what I can to keep it strong and vibrant the whole week. I do all this to honor her place in my heart and the heart of the tablao itself. Like an archive, the flower ensures that she is never forgotten.

And like an archive, the flower ensures that if the time comes, I am always ready to resume our dance.

It is, after all, a possibility.