Portrait of a Kirin
Admiral Biscuit
She always arranged her pillows before getting into bed.
She’d levitate them up in her magic, examine them, maybe poke them with a hoof, and either stack them in a pillow pile or reject them, until she finally achieved pillow perfection.
•••
There was a lot I didn’t know about her. For one, we didn’t speak the same language.
She was good at pantomime, good enough that I could always figure out what she was ‘saying.’
And despite the language barrier, she liked to talk. When she pantomimed, she’d talk, too, even though she knew I couldn’t understand a word she was saying. Sometimes she’d sing—it was almost like she just liked hearing her own voice, like she feared if she fell silent it might last forever.
She’d listen to me, too, when I talked. One or both ears would cock in my direction—depending on what else she was focusing on—and would stay laser-focused as long as I was speaking.
•••
I’d thought that hooves would be a detriment, but besides her magic, her hooves were cloven, able to pick up things she could squeeze on. Some of her own things, built for ponies; that didn’t surprise me. Other things, built by humans for humans, she could interact with those, too. I tried myself, tried instead of gripping the normal way spreading my fingers in a weird Vulcan pose and discovered I could pick things up, too. Not as efficiently as with a proper hand-grip, but well enough.
•••
Sometimes she wanted the couch to herself, other times she’d tap the cushions impatiently, a signal I ought to be sitting there. As often as not, once I’d taken my seat she’d put her head on my lap or stretch out along my leg, demanding mane-pets and ear-scritches I was only too happy to provide.
Other times, I’d be lazing on the couch after a day that didn’t bear thinking about, the TV turned to something mindless and stupid, and without an invitation she’d climb up and nuzzle me, snuggle up against me.
She was always soft and warm and comforting. The scales on her back were weird if I stroked them the wrong way, and she didn’t like that either, hissing at me.
•••
There are still cultural misunderstandings, but on the important levels I think we understand each other more often than not.
•••
Every morning I make my bed with nearly military-precision—a quarter wouldn’t bounce off it, but I wouldn’t be embarrassed if Better Homes and Gardens showed up with a photography crew. Cinder Glow’s bed is chaos until her ritual nightly pillow-sorting, and while the contrast annoyed me at first, it doesn't any more. I tried to think of ways to pantomime the importance of a properly-made bed, and failed. And by the time I’d resigned myself to the knowledge that I couldn’t explain it, it didn’t bother me enough to try and overcome our language barrier.
•••
Some of our differences are complementary. I like to shower in the morning; she prefers waiting until the evening and that prevents bathroom conflicts.
Plus, it’s another opportunity to unwind. She can hold a brush in a hoof, or with her magic, but she often wants me to groom her. I’d heard that ponies were more touchy than humans but hadn’t mentally prepared myself for it, not completely, not enough that I was expecting the first time that she sat down in front of me, dropped the hairbrush she’d been holding in her mouth, and made grooming motions with a hoof.
I couldn’t turn her down. I couldn’t let her down, so I picked up the brush and went to work and she’d occasionally grimace as I hit a snag until I got the art down and now it was a routine evening task and that didn’t bother me a bit.
And she wasn't one to just take; in the mornings she was ready with brush in hoof.
I wanted to tell her that I could do it myself but I didn’t know how and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings and it wasn’t that long before it was a usual morning thing.
•••
Cinder Glow doesn’t care that much what the TV’s turned to. She never pays it that much attention anyways, and that’s good for me. As long as people are talking on it, she’s happy.
Sometimes, I’ll find it tuned to the shopping channel or some long infomercial and on rare occasions she’s actually watching it, but mostly it’s just background noise for her. I can change the channel with no frustrated hoof-stomp, no head-shake, just a flicker of ears in my direction.
Sometimes, I just leave it on whatever she set it on, and don’t sit on the couch and rot my brain with too much TV.
•••
She stacked up her pillows just so, leaving two this time on the reject pile. Too soft? Too hard? I didn’t know. Her pillowcases were a mismatch and if I were a proper anthropologist I might have been keeping track of which ones she liked and which ones she didn’t on any given night, but I wasn't and I didn’t.
Cinder Glow tapped a hoof on the bed, and at first I didn’t figure it out but she did it again, more insistently, and I obediently got up off the couch, clicking the power button on the remote.
Hoof taps and pantomime made it clear that I was to lie where she’d indicated.
She stretched a foreleg across my chest and offered me one of her hard-won pillows; it had been a good choice. Not too firm.
She nestled against me, and I touched her head and ran my fingers through her mane, the same mane I’d recently spent time on. It was still tangle-free.
I knew where she liked to be scratched behind the ears and my hand was close already.
•••
Morning.
I like making coffee; the smell helps wake me up. And a shower, as well. Make the bed—a bit of routine to start out the day.
Cinder Glow’s still draped across my chest.
Morning can wait.