I was dimly aware that, as a changeling, she might not actually be a “she”. But both her shapes had been mares; I guessed she was most comfortable as a “she”. I half-expected her next shape to be a stallion just to screw with me.
I was so focused on her I didn’t even notice the slight rain slowly soaking me, the microscopic lakes I passed through. She was all that mattered, the changeling in front of me. I still didn’t know why; there was obviously a hole, there, but I hadn’t a clue as to the hole’s shape. Maybe I was lonelier than I wanted to admit.
It probably shouldn’t’ve been, but hanging back and following her was growing easier for me. Mainly because I’d realized I didn’t need to keep her in view all the time, just often enough to make sure I didn’t lose her. She wouldn’t risk changing in a crowd, right?
Right. She turned down an alley; as I trotted to the corner, green painted the walls for half a heartbeat. I turned after her, and the short-maned pegasus mare had been replaced with a long-maned unicorn mare, all curves and waves in body, tail, and mane. Blue dress, now; robin’s-egg blue and a shade more glamorous than her Hole-in-the-Wall one had been. A part of me I wasn’t aware existed noted her walk: almost-but-not-quite casual, just a little taut, like she was struggling against rubber bands, but certainly purposeful. That part also noted her walk hadn’t changed from shape to shape to shape. Finally, something constant.
She and I went back into the crowd, thinned by lateness. She knew where she was going. I’d only been in this part of Canterlot once or twice, only on business. We passed unfamiliar stores on an unfamiliar street.
As we walked, I wondered: what did “feeding on love” even entail? Was it true love, or did “I had a couple of drinks and think you’re hot” not-really-love count? Was that what she was after? Why did she leave whenever she attracted a companion? I still didn’t know what she wanted. Doubted I’d ever find out without asking her.
I almost missed her turning into a club with an intricate neon sign: a flower stylized so that its petals spelled out the place’s name, the Red Rose. Once again, nopony looked twice as she climbed the steps. I tried to follow, but once I was under the awning, the unicorn at the door held up a hoof. “Wait.”
My breath caught in my throat. I’d lose her. “Look, I-”
The unicorn’s horn glowed; half a second later, every drop of water had slid out of my coat, leaving me dry as could be. The unicorn stepped aside and waved me in. I wished I had a hat to pull over my eyes. “Thanks. Sorry.”
I was greeted by Art Deco mirrors and leafy ferns, hardwood floors and terracotta ceilings, abstract paintings and stained-glass chandeliers. The Red Rose was a place with class, lacking the glamorous facade of Catalina’s but more dressed-up than Hole-in-the-Wall. This place had music, real music, in the form of a soft jazz ensemble with loose ties and pinstripes. Everything had a thin veil of quiet draped over it, like nopony wanted to disturb anypony else.
More than ever, I belonged as much as a plumber at the Grand Galloping Gala. I wondered if that was why I was following her: envy. She slipped in and out of everywhere with ease, always fitting in, the world’s greatest social chameleon. Yet every time somepony welcomed her, she acknowledged them politely and left shortly after. Perhaps the ultimate example of “alone in a crowd”.
She took up her usual position in the bar’s blind spot and watched. I took up a table on the wall behind a bird’s nest fern and ordered nothing but water from the waiter. I wanted to be alert tonight. He looked miffed until I pushed my last dozen bits at him in apology for the lack of tip.
Perhaps it was the deliberate atmosphere of the Red Rose, but it seemed to take longer for a pony to arrive and greet her. She didn’t mind. In fact, the longer she was alone, the more invested in the mirror she became. Her ears kept swiveling around, picking up snatches of conversation too muffled for me to hear. She was as still and focused as a birdwatcher.
But she kept waving off the bartender, much to the latter’s displeasure. Eventually, they exchanged words quietly; I strained to hear them. This time, they spoke in Manehattan accents, probably from around the Broncs. I listened and listened and listened, but she never slipped up.
Finally, the bartender put her hoof down and demanded the mare order something or make room for other patrons (in spite of there being six empty stools). The mare sighed and ordered something I gathered was cheap. It arrived quickly, but she didn’t sip much. She kept ponywatching and ponylistening. I stayed obscured behind my green bird’s nest, unnoticed.
The drink was a quarter gone when she muttered something about washing up and headed for the bathroom. She came towards me; I shuffled aside in a panic, forcing myself painfully against the wall. She passed by without noticing and entered the bathroom. I quickly scooted around the table and pressed against the wall even harder, trying to stay out of sight of the bathroom door. Not easy.
The mare who came out a few seconds later wasn’t her; this one was a pegasus, not a unicorn. I dropped into a more comfortable position, only for a moment.
My movement caught the mare’s eye. She looked lazily at me, looked away, did a double-take. Her pupils turned to pinpricks and her breathing quickened. A frozen second later, she bolted for the door.
She was almost there by the time it hit me: this mare was her. Nopony was looking at you in the bathroom; what better place to drop your shape and slip away? I was up in an instant, chasing her to the door. “Hey! Wait!”
By the time I was out the door, she was gone. Vanished into the crowd, flown into the sky, simply wearing a different shape. Even if I could see her, I wasn’t finding her, not when she was just a face in a sea of faces. I swore under my breath.