I grabbed a hat from the rack – one of Coco’s – and went for an introspective walk. I trotted along the Manehattan streets as my mind buzzed with what Coco had said. A therapist? Somehow that idea just didn’t seem to fit into my jumbled brain. In some ways it felt right, but in other ways I couldn’t fathom myself being an actual therapist pony, talking other troubled ponies through their problems, advising them on what to do about it, following up to see how they’re progressing, and everything else that comes with it. These thoughts blurred in my head after a while, so I decided to stop in at a diner I had passed by many times before.
It was quiet, with some steady business to make it feel like it had a pulse. I passed by a couple stallions in one booth arguing about what constitutes a miracle, and then went by a little colt with a coloring book, who was oddly unattended. I was about to ask if his parents were around when one of them called out, “Zig Zag! Take your snout out of that book for two seconds and get on your hooves. We need to leave!” He galloped to them, leaving the booth open. I decided to sit there.
I almost didn’t hear the waitress when she came over and asked what I wanted. I just ordered a coffee at first, since I didn’t have much of an appetite. I was in a trance, staring out the window for ages. Sometime later, I was aggressively startled out of my surreal state by a voice that was all-too-familiar: Rarity was sitting in the booth directly behind me.
I instinctively shrank down in my seat. I listened for a minute and found out that Rarity was there doing an interview about the opening of her new boutique, which was apparently a bit of a nightmare. I was going to try to leave at first, but I couldn’t; I wanted to hear what Rarity was saying. After she was done, all the rest of her friends – my old friends, or what felt like my old friends – told their sides of the story as well. It was wonderful to hear all their voices again. I felt like I was reliving some of my memories as Pinkie Pie. Of course, at some point during the changing of interviewees, Pinkie herself came in and sat down to provide her version of events.
I had never been around the real Pinkie. Sure, I saw her from a bit of a distance during the cloning incident before I left Ponyville, but I never got up close to her, never spoke to her, never really heard her. Having her right behind me, sounding exactly like me, looking like me, was all a bit surreal. I listened to her recount the events, and at one point she even mentioned the cloning incident! I involuntarily looked around at this mention. I found myself exposed for a second when Pinkie scarfed down a giant stack of pancakes. I turned back quickly, unable to breathe for nervousness. I might have tried to sneak away, and a part of me really wanted to, but I was welded to the diner seat.
As I kept listening, partially for fear of being seen, partially out of pure curiosity and fascination, I finally began to understand something: this is a completely different pony than me. That was the first time I didn’t feel like a strange copy of Pinkie Pie, the fist time I really felt like me, Mina Pearl.
I decided not to get up and draw unnecessary attention to myself, so I waited until the interviews were done and everypony had left, and then slipped away quietly. My head was still swimming as I stepped outside. I made my way back to Coco’s with Equestria spinning around me.
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En route to the apartment I passed by an outdoor jazz music show. I recognized one pony in the ensemble, Octavia, on the cello. I also recognized the piece they were playing, a number called “Moon Swing” by Smokin’ Brass. It was one of my favorites, and I had often listened to it at the apartment. I sat on a bench and took in the music in the twilight for a while. For a few minutes I closed my eyes. I could hear the other ponies around chatting, the clinking of glasses, ponies walking by and sometimes stopping to hear some music for a second.
It felt like the piece was going longer than usual, and I opened my eyes again to see the musicians. It’s funny how sometimes a song will feel longer or shorter depending on your mood and state of mind when you hear it. In that moment, it seemed like the song would go on forever, and the ponies would never leave, the kind of scene rendered by a master painter.
After closing my eyes again, I thought hard, turning everything over in my pink head. Yet, as I tried to focus, I started to think less and to hear the music more and more. Before long, I was beginning to see the events of my life flowing before me like an elaborate banner streaming from one end to the other. It started to come so easily, and I began to form one overarching image, the big picture, as it were. For the first time I stopped worrying, in a beautiful moment where everything felt like it was coming to a stop. As it happened, that was the moment in which “Moon Swing” was ending, and as the final note sounded, there was a flash of yellow that I saw through my closed eyelids.
When my eyes opened, no one seemed to have noticed it. They were clapping their hooves after the performance, and nothing looked amiss or different. I knew I saw that flash. I kept looking around for a minute hoping it would happen again, or that I would see some other pony looking for the same thing. After seeing nothing to indicate what it was, I was about to give up and conclude that it was just in my head. Then I froze in place, suddenly remembering what happened the last time I saw a flash. I reached my hoof down and slowly pulled up the hem of my dress. Once my flank was uncovered, I was stunned into unearthly silence. There, where my balloons had been, was a trio of vibrant yellow daffodils.