First Pony View

by Suomibrony

Simulacrum

A relative silence had descended now that our conversation had ended. Some pop song was playing, and Embee was enjoying her tea. That is, whenever she wasn't inserting her face into the cake for a bite. The juxtaposition of that with her decorous tea drinking was rather bewildering. I should stop staring at her before she inquired about that,. I turned my attention toward the chocolate-covered marshmallow with vanilla foam in front of me.

“Hey, do you know what a jokester's favorite day is?” Embee asked whilst I was discreetly and self-consciously licking the last of the vanilla foam filling off my waffle-bottomed chocolate treat.

I had anticipated a different question. “Uh . . .” I floated the goodie to my mouth, granting myself a pretext to think for a few seconds more. “I don't know.”

Her cheeks puckered with a smile. “Jesterday!” she chirped.

Weak as the joke was, I was genuinely amused. “Ah ha ha ha, clever.”

“Yeah, I think it's funny, too,” she said with delight—and without a shred of irony.

I was bemused, but also curious. “But why tell a joke?” It had been unprompted, after all.

Confused surprise wiped her smile. “Why not tell a joke?” she replied, her positive outlook being restored soon after. “Seemed you needed a bit of cheering.”

“I didn't know I was mopey.” In all fairness, I wasn't all sunshine and rainbows, but definitely not depressed.

“Sorry. Have I misread your silence?” Compunction drooped her ears. “You hadn't said anything for a while.”

Her measurement of time was puzzling. “Less than a minute is a while?”

“Sitting silent with company is a little unusual for me, I guess.” Was she criticising me? Had she expected me to engage in small talk?

“I guess I'm not one to keep talking for the sake of talking.” That was a bit . . . blunt.

“Oh . . .” She leaned back slightly, as if a tad insulted, and also hurt. “Do you think we could have a substantive conversation?” she inquired carefully.

“Of course we can,” I said in a conciliatory tone. “Er, but talk about what?” Then I realized I had inadvertently given the initiative to her. Now I had to hope she wouldn't bring up something boring, or worse, something that was intrinsically female.

“Anything, really. Friends, family, hobbies. Whatever you like,” she suggested.

Friends, family, and hobbies? “Any . . . thing?” I should've been very happy that Embee threw the ball back to me, but it had sprouted a lit wick—and on some days, I just couldn't get rid of a bomb. “I'm . . . I'm honestly a little afraid to talk about anything when I have this looming fear of dropping down into some pony's memories without a way to propel myself out.” Maybe if I had a Bat-ladder, or was saved by the sudden appearance of an extraordinarily heroic porpoise?

“Don't worry about that now,” Embee assuaged confidently. “I'm here, ready to ruffle your ears to get you back.”

“With tears in my eyes?” I recoiled at the idea. “Yeah, sure, I'd like that a lot . . .” I protested, even as I realized that I didn't have a choice but to submit. “Well, I won't, but what must be done has to be done . . .”

“I'm really sorry.” My despondency was not lost on her. “But if it makes you feel any better, I can think of a milder approach. How about I, ahm hmm . . . Touch you on the snout—er, nose?” It was kind of her to correct herself. “What do you think of it?”

“Well, um, that's . . .” Something bopping this white thing in my vision would . . . perhaps not be so bad? Just weird. Not bad. Just . . . okay. It would be okay. “Yeah, it's acceptable. If it doesn't work, then you can use stronger methods.”

“Very well. Now, should we have a conversation or . . . ?” She glanced over toward the doorway leading to the other room and, of course, the exit. “If you're feeling tense, a few minutes of talking might help.”

“Yeah, perhaps. How about you tell me more about yourself?” As innocuous as that seemed, I realized the flaw in her talking about herself. “Or wait, no, don't. You'd talk about pony stuff, and that could put me in a trance.”

“And then I boop you,” Embee said, mimicking the motion.

“Comforting,” I responded, smiling lightly even if I was a tad perturbed. “I genuinely appreciate your joyful attitude,” I continued in a moment of sincerity.

“A bit of jollity makes life easier.” She drew a small, short breath. “But, you know, we don't really have to talk about me, if you don't want to. I could even try not saying anything about myself.”

The discomfort I felt for having so much power over her made my being a mare nothing but a minor inconvenience. “Well . . . I guess it's . . . it's preferable that you don't?” I said hesitantly, then sighed. “I'm so sorry that I said that. Just ignore it, forget I said anything.” Before she could interject, I added, “Could I have my candy, please?” It'd offer a little bit of an uplift in this moment of self-hatred.

“Yeah, ah, sure,” she said softly. “Here you go.” She dug up the crumpled, blue bag and pushed it across the table to me.

“Thanks, I'll . . . not get to them this way,” I said awkwardly. Instinctually, I had placed my limb atop the bag.

“Would you say that’s both good and bad?” Embee must be alluding to how I was divided on adjusting to my ponyness.

“Uh, hmm, maybe, I don't know . . .” My answer was just as ambivalent. Slowly, I opened the crumpled candy container with my mind powers. “I'll only eat one.”

“You can eat as many as you like. They're yours, aren't they?” They were, but I'd still desist from taking more than one. Explaining the moderation to her would be easy, if I ever deduced the logic behind it myself. Regardless, since I was taking only a single candy, I decided to go for my favourite.

“I prefer these brown-grey ones. They are the most potent.” I held said example in the air for her to see, shortly before ingesting it.

“Ah-a.” Her smile belied her opinion on the indelicacy. “What's it taste like?” she inquired despite her disgust.

I moved the hard candy onto my tongue and let it sit there for a brief analysis. “Like spicy licorice.”

This gave her a pause, during which her disposition didn't improve. “Is the hard shell made of the same fiery substance as its insides?”

“Yes, though maybe not as hot.” I took this moment to return my candy bag to her possession on the account of that I didn't have anything on me where to put them. Then I felt suddenly . . . very naked. But naked was normal. And accepted. And not strange. Certainly I could convince myself of it. Or not think about it.

Having diligently stored the sweets into her saddlebag, she rested her eyes on it after its closure, as if frightened they'd go up in flames. “I'll have to avoid picking the kind you like.”

Her spitting out candy shards at the base of a tree was fresh in my mind. “But you could've had worse,” I consoled nonchalantly.

Her brows curled. “There's something worse in there?”

I laughed lightly, having half a mind to jest that the bag itself would be an unhealthy snack. “No, not really. I meant that it could've been an entirely different type of candy.” The hot candy I had now was nothing to some other kinds. Compared to this, Embee's spicy fruit surprise might as well had been a breath mint. But in all fairness . . . “The two ponies, Skyward and Gauge I think they were, they could've, um, donated something dreadful. Like Hershey's.”

“Oh?” A glint of innocent curiosity washed away her frown. “What's that?”

“It's a candy that makes you hate America,” I quipped dryly.

She gasped. “Oh my, that's terrible. I'll be sure to never eat that! Who'd ever think of creating something so vile? I don't want to be hateful.” She . . . genuinely thought the candy held that kind of power over the mind? Hard as I tried not to, her innocent naivete made me chuckle. “Aha.” She eyed me with a warm eye of admonition. “You were joking, weren't you?”

“Yeah, ah, I was,” I admitted coyly. “It happens.”

“You have a funny sense of humor.” That was a compliment, I presumed.

“Better for it to be funny than not.” I was glad to have a friendly conversation sprinkled with jollity and playful humor. Seemed like I hadn't had one in a while. When was the last time I had fun with my friends?

“So tell me,” Embee said, interrupting my introspection. “What's the candy really like?”

“Like spoiled milk and puke dyed chocolate brown.” A fleeting thought surmised that in this world the candy might be better, or not exist to begin with. “Not sure why it's made, or why it even sells. I can only assume it's an acquired taste—and to that I have to add that some people probably have really poor taste. And don't throw that back at me. The spicy candy can be compared to peppers. They're often used as condiments, so while hot candy is unusual, it's not removed from the culinary realm. Spoiled milk, however, belongs in the trash, not in the mouth. And let's not even talk about the second alleged ingredient.”

Judging by Embee's expression, her stomach had just cringed. “Yes I agree, let's not.” Gradually, she eased her mind off the revolting impressions, then glanced down at her nearly empty plate. “I better finish this though.” When she began to lick the plate clean, I had to consciously command myself not to gawk. To keep myself occupied, I began to unwrinkle the foil wrapper as a mental exercise. In theory, I could undo each and every wrinkle, but that'd go down to the microlevels of telekinesis. Even that thought seemed to stand at the edge of that feared mental trap. “Well, do you think we should get going?” Embee asked suddenly. Her cake was no more. I assumed the same applied to her tea.

“Sure.” I placed the foil in my empty coffee mug. Embee donned her saddlebags. I only had a hat to wear, though I briefly wished for something more substantial, preferably to protect that part of me which I didn't think highly of. “I hope this seat was clean,” I said as I began to remove myself from it.

“I'm sure it was, and is, clean. This cafe is very clean. Stands to reason that the seats would be as well,” Embee reassured as I stood up . . . and remained perched on the seat like an indecisive cat. I had been sitting so long I had almost forgotten that I'd have to stand and move on all fours. A leap down onto the floor was a little daunting, not because of the distance, or controlling my momentum, but because I wasn't sure I'd be able to absorb the sensation of landing on hooves. Best I get it done before I overthought myself into petrification. Down I leapt and . . . it wasn't so bad. I was a little surprised. “Hon, I couldn't help but think here. You sat on that seat for a good while, and only now that we're leaving you worry it was unclean. How come?”

I cast a glance at the potentially contaminated furniture. “The last thing I want to worry about is grime getting . . . on my coat.”

It being a genuine concern wasn't corroborated by Embee's confused but inquisitive expression. “Sorry, hon, you tried to tell me something, but then chose not to. Any reason as to why?”

“I showered recently, as you know, and I, ah . . . Who doesn't like to be clean?” I tried to deflect lamely.

“Hey.” She approached me. “You don't have to be ashamed, hon,” she whispered as she took me into a brief but unexpectedly calming hug. “I get what you mean,” she continued as she backed off, “Don't worry about the grime that much, the vagi—ah, that, the . . . Edson grate?” I couldn't believe that she almost said the word I didn't want to associate with something I have. “It's self-cleaning.”

“Edsel gril—” Shock and disbelief took over as the meaning dawned to me. “It is?”

She cocked a brow. “You didn't know?”

“Actually, no,” I confessed accidentally, but quickly collected myself as I realized that I might've put myself at the precipice of a disguise-demolishing pitfall. “Or, huhm, now that I think of it, maybe I do. I mean, there's that thing called . . . discharging.” I had two wishes: To not experience that bodily function, but if that was too tall of an order, then wish No.2 was that discharge not be as messy as the one I had some familiarity with. “Well, now that the pieces have fallen together, I don't know whether to be thankful or revolted. So, I uh, I will be . . . thankvolted, ah-hah.” I would've punctuated that with a thumbs up . . .

“Wasn't this taught to you in sex ed?” My forced lightheartedness hadn't affected Embee.

“Probably was, but could be that I forgot. Maybe I wasn't paying attention?” I suppose since I had dodged the danger—I should distract her before I was back in the crosshairs. “Uh, anyhow, since we're leaving, should we return these plates and mugs . . .” Without hands, that seemed close to impossible.

“It's polite that you want to help, but you don't have to. The kindly man will take care of it, I'm sure.” Embee glanced toward his presumed location; he was unseen from where we stood.

“Okay then.” By coincidence, I noted that the softly playing music wasn't a nondescript pop tune anymore, but seemed to exude a bit of gravitas, with droning vocals imbedded within a steady tempo resembling that of the Velvet Underground.

“ . . . taller than his ears, and placed the apple on the hay. Now selling his tail for a smile, that's not a way for it to lay . . .”

“Well, that's not I'm Waiting For The Man,” I thought out loud.

“What?” Embee halted, having only taken a few steps. “Oh, the music, you mean? I don't know what that is. Or who it is. Ah, but this song . . . This could be by Moody Grimtone.”

“Who?” my curiosity spoke for me.

“Moody Grimtone,” she replied—and that was all?

“Note to self: Stupid questions begets stupid answers,” I quipped flatly.

Embee's laugh was that of playful mocking. “He's a pony from the Dustover, a town at the very edge of the Parched Canyon. Life's not so easy there, and that makes him different from most other musicians, and he makes different music, too.” By that, she meant brooding rather than bubbly? “Occasionally, an untameable wind comes through the canyon, carrying gravel and sand . Everypony stays inside until it has blown over, and during that time, the town's completely isolated. It can go on for weeks, and as you can imagine, things can become quite bleak. But producing spectacular dyes out of the iridescent rocks dug up from the canyon is worth it, I guess.” Suddenly, she glanced over herself as if a fly had gone by. “But what are we waiting for? Did you not say you wanted to leave?”

“Right when I started to get settled in here,” I half-joked as we began to make our leave for real. Honestly, this place was cozier than the hospital. Although, I really shouldn't feel like this was a place I'd rather be at, considering what was at stake. “So, what's on the other side of that canyon?” I resumed our topic. As the barista came to our line of view, I saw that giving his phone a single-finger massage had become his latest occupation.

“Have a pleasant day,” he presented a complimentary farewell that felt more routine than sincere.. Just as soon, his attention was quickly diverted by two dark-haired guys coming in, one of whom wore a conspicuous, white hoodie. It had a cartoonish rodent of some kind, holding a curved finger to his head and was captioned with yellow lettering that stated: I'm having a thinkeroo. The other person, who looked a lot like a young Robert Mitchum, was lethargic in his movements. “Oh, man, again?” the barista greeted them in a conspicuously unusual manner.

“He needs a coffee,” his healthy friend said, sighing. Seemed like this guy and the barista shared history. But why ask for a coffee?

“Noo . . .” the not-so-well guy moaned as he sat down by a table, whereafter his face disappeared into the embrace of his crossed, hairy arms.

His buddy sawed an index finger over his own stubble. “Okay. Not a coffee. Make it an espresso,” he ordered with the weight of a firm but understanding commanding officer.

“Noo . . .” his friend protested.

“A frappe?” I chipped in.

“Is he okay?” Embee said, evidently taking this seriously. “He doesn't look okay.”

“Noo . . .” The poor fellow raised his head, gazing at us over his arms with bleary eyes. He let out a weak, withering laugh of cryptic revelation, instilling him with short-lived joy. “Uhgh . . . No me pasa la cruda . . .” he said croakily as his head fell back onto his arms.

“It's nothing to get worried about, he will be okay sooner or later. You can count on it,” the all-okay guy said to Embee with a touch of exhaustion as he sat down by his compatriot, whereupon he began to talk to him in a different language. If his tone and gestures were any indication, he was giving his friend a stern scolding.

I gave a doubtful look at the barista, who creased his lips to a sorry smile and shrugged. “He'll be okay. If not.” He held up his device of long-distance communication. “Help will be a call away.”

“Well . . . It's on them if he's come down with acute radiation poisoning or something,” I said to Embee, taking myself to the exit and beyond; the barista guffawed at my wry humour.

At the concrete plateau of eventual descension, I was overcome by indecision. It was only a few steps, but how to do that on all fours, that were in essence toes, was still beyond my capabilities. While I was here, I heard Embee say goodbye—and a few cautionary words. She was a pony of healthcare, after all. A moment later, she was beside me, and thereupon, she read my expression.

“Alright. Watch,” she whispered. Of course, I was supposed to observe, so I could learn how to do it, but I unthinkingly gazed away so as to not look at her posterior without her explicit permission. Even though her behind was that of a pony and didn't resemble that of a human's . . . But the principle still mattered!

“Something on your mind?” Embee said, once again dispelling my contemplations.

“Yeah, uh, no . . .” Without further thought, I placed my forelegs on the first step. Then I'd have to move them to the next step down, and . . . feel uncomfortable standing at an inclined posture. Oh, why had I not thought of this earlier: I should've just made a small leap to clear the steps altogether! To get down to ground level, I'd have to simultaneously push with my hind legs and "walk" with my forelegs. If I didn't overthink it, then I'd be very chore-ohno-graphic!

“Umph!” Embee enunciated when my uncontrolled forward momentum was arrested by her broadside.

Caught in a flummox, I tried to brush off perceived post-collision irregularities, but seeing a shoed-limb put a halt to that. “Sorry, I thought I . . . Of course. That was the problem. I thought how to descend the stairs instead of relegating that to my instincts. If I have any, I mean, maybe I do, but they're latent uh—”

Embee giving me an unexpected but warm hug disrupted my thoughts. “Your front legs walked fine, but you did a kick with your hind legs.”

When she backed off, I made a deduction despite my confusion. “That was ah . . . a ‘you did well, six out of ten’ hug?”

“You're starting to analyze hugs now?” Embee said laughingly, eyeing me with bemused incredulity.

“Analyzing helps rationalize things, and it's also mentally stimulating,” I explained as we ventured to the street. “A mystery is a question without an answer, and curious minds are looking for answers. As you can guess, I have a curious mind.”

“But are there mysteries you don't want answers to?” she inquired further.

“Uuhh . . .” I was briefly overcome by doubt. “No, I don't think so. A mystery does not repulse. It attracts,” I countered. “What kind of a mystery is that which does not reward for its solving?”

A bicyclist passed us from behind, thankfully by a wide berth. “The kind that reveals an unpleasant surprise” Embee said.

A flock of autumn leaves carried by a breeze rustled along the street. “Were you thinking of a fruit-flavored hard candy with a spicy core?”

“Why, well . . .” she hemmed and chuckled. “Not really, but it's a fair example. They were inviting, and seemed benign. I should've known better, though, but I didn't believe those two ponies when they warned me. Shame on me.”

“Oh, well, it's a learning experience. Next time, um . . . check it before you eat it.” Reminded me of that clip of a TV host discovering a crushed candy stuck to his shoe, and then eating it. Gross! But it wasn't candy, but something his cat had chucked up. Gross times infinity! Also, how stupid could one be to eat something that was stuck under their shoe. Sheesh!

Upon arriving at an intersection, we waited for an approaching van to pass before we crossed. As we waited, I spied quite the fine thing. “Wo-how, look at that,” I said in a low, hushed tone.

“At what?” Embee asked, clueless and casting glances all around.

“There, on the other side,” I tried to verbally point at what was clear as day.

“Hm?” Finally, she was finding the mark. “Ohhh.” She looked at me with a wry smile. “Would you say that's a fine piece of a man?”

“Huh?” Her insinuation left me dumbfounded, along with cranking up my body temperature. I hadn't seen any people here, let alone guys . . . except for one who was walking away and down the street in jeans and a t-shirt. Perhaps unwisely light for early autumn. “No, uh, no. That's, that's not what I had my eyes on. What they were on is over there, at that blue . . .” In my flummoxed state, my embarrassment shifted to mild abashment. “I would say it's beautiful, but uhm, well . . .”

“That blue beautiful . . . Ah.” Embee finally saw the main attraction.

“Yes, that is . . . that I must take a closer look.” Crossing the street and turning right, I approached the spectacular legend. “Don't see these often, especially of this kind and in this condition. It almost looks untouched.”

“Uhm, okay.” Embee rushed ahead and gently halted me. She then pointed her already raised limb. “So, what is this thing that you're so fascinated about?”

“It's a Subaru Impreza WRX, I'm guessing version two, from the mid 90's. In blue and with gold rims as you can see, just as the iconic rally car,” I explained as I began to do an inspective walkaround. “This could be a 22b, though that'd make it exceptionally rare.” I stopped momentarily to peer through a window into the interior. “It'd be right-hand drive if it were, as I understand the 22b was Japan-only. So, this could be an RS coupe? I'd have to learn more about Imprezas to truly know.”

“To your credit, you know a lot more than I do, or expected you to know,” Embee noted as I continued my tour.

“I'm not seeing any obvious aftermarket parts or tacky modifications. That's great. The exhaust seems to be stock as well. I can tell by its oval-shaped muffler. Commonly replaced to produce a heftier sound, and sometimes improve performance. This car seems to be unmodified, though if I am wrong, then I must say I'm impressed at how subtle it is.” Having completed my lap, I returned to Embee. “I adore cars that retain their original condition. It's like a well-preserved piece of history. Many owners modify their cars, to set it apart from the factory standard, but in perhaps an ironic twist, it's those that remain unchanged that ultimately become the most valued.”

“Oh, um, I suppose that is ironic.” She looked at me, past me, then again at me. Her brows furrowed. “I'm sorry to say this, but it looks like any car to me.”

“Mmmhh, yes, but not quite. It's much more than just any car. Look at what's behind it.” We travelled a short distance to get a better look at the silver appliance of stylistic uncreativeness. “This here is a bulging, loaf-shaped bunker of metal and plastic that bears a face of that which wants to show the world that it's powerful and aggressive, grrrr.” I then groaned, as if reacting to a display of the described vacuous aggrandizing. “It'll be an underappreciated classic in twenty years,” I ironized as I turned around with swiftness. “This Subaru, however, now look at its face.”

“Face?” I heard Embee say in apparent confusion. That's what I had said, hadn't I?

Once we had gathered at the proper location, I resumed talking. “This is from the twilight of the era when the common car looked docile, when their headlights were four corners connected by straight lines, perhaps with some modest curvature. The Impreza differs by trading docility for confidence. Not aggression. Not bravado. Confidence. And assertiveness. It knows that it's not like the other cars. It's an athlete, but doesn't need to show off, because it knows that's for the insecure. Granted, the Impreza has a spoiler on its back and flared bumpers, but that's comparable to having a muscular build as opposed to being lean. I think.” A bloated "compact" quietly rolled by; I regarded it with contempt and disgust. “An unexciting city car with tapered headlights and a large air intake,” I muttered.

“Eh?” Embee said quizzically.

“That car over there had the look of that which hates everything. I'm sure its first generation was cute as a puppy, greeting everything with an innocuous and soft "hi". I wish more cars today were fun and carefree, rather than sharing the common and generic styling queues seen on almost every car. Everything has sharp, angry headlights, looking to be taken seriously. Where's the creativity? Where are the new Bertones, Gandinis, and Giugiaros poised to give a swift kick to this tiresome trend of homogeneity? I mean, when so many cars look feisty and ferocious, it . . . I don't know . . .” I sighed, actually becoming dejected.

“Neither do I know, but it, it's, uhm . . .” Embee's inability to contribute, while not unexpected, was discouraging and dismaying, and enkindled a feeling of self-doubt. Who in their right mind would want to be that jaded miser who lambasts the modern times and harps on about things being better in the old days? Though, on that note, I didn't like what constituted as popular music in my school years, but 80's music filled me with emotions I couldn't properly describe. “Ah!” Embee exclaimed. “Yes, it loses its meaning and effectiveness, and you then begin desiring for the different, or their diametric opposites; the unassuming and gentle. I'd certainly be beside myself with frustration if every dress was a poodle skirt with lace frills.”

“Yes, precisely,” I chirped. “I too would . . . Well, actually, I'm not that much of a dress-minded, uhm . . .” No, verbally referring to myself as a female demanded more bravery than I could muster. I also didn't know what a poodle skirt with lace frills was. “But you make an interesting point. Clothes and cars aren't the same, but clothes can be the means to express one's persona, and that'll be very hard to do if all clothes are the same. Much like cars, they have to serve my practical needs first, but it stands to reason that they have to synergize with my self-image as well. When it does, it feels and looks good; an important combination applicable to both cars and clothes! As silly as this is, I'd choose a Grumman-Olson P800 over a modern sports coupe. It just seems like it's more fun to drive. For being a no-frills utility vehicle, it's rather stylish, too.”

“I have to take your word for it.” Embee's neutral and unstressed acknowledgment indicated that my enthusiasm was, despite her commendable efforts, eluding her full understanding.

“But, um . . . I digress. It's possible that an apparent lack of aesthetical variation has sparked an interest toward the uncommon, or in this case, the past designs.” I gave the always-poised Subaru a once-over glance. “Designs that perhaps, I have to admit, were ubiquitous once. The datedness is what makes it charming?”

“Or as you put earlier, charming as a cute puppy.” I hadn't realized it earlier, but that sounded soppy. Although, I had said it with earnest . . .

“Yeah.” No point in trying to deny it. “I have a soft spot for cars that exude sympathy,” I said as I rubbed the pavement, combating my embarrassment. “In all fairness, though, this car's not cute and cuddly. Quite the opposite. Well, it certainly isn't ugly, but it's confident and uhm, what would be the opposite of cuddly?”

“Mmmmh . . . Masculine?”

“Masc . . . uhm, could it?” I looked back at it and her a few times, trying to decide whether to affirm her observation or employ clever wording to covertly distance myself from corroborating a notion that females appreciated masculinity in its many forms. Alas, time was short, and so, begrudgingly, I conceded to her presumption. “Hadn't actually realized that could be . . .” I said in an insightful tone, suppressing my chagrin.

“Maybe it's not? You have a keen eye for cars, so you'd know better than I ever could. But I can for sure say that masculinity doesn't exclude cuddliness,” Embee said with an air of sensual recollection.

“That's some, er, carnal wisdom,” I opined jestfully, and that was as far as I'd go with acting like I was a hetero female. Her giggle further emphasized how out of my league I was. “Anyhow, this Subaru's also honest and unpretentious, appearing as it is rather than trying to be what it isn't.” I had a sudden moment of realization. “I wish I could say that about myself,” I whispered pensively to myself.

“What?” Embee said. I felt a tug behind my cheeks as the relevant muscles brought my ears up. “Hon, I didn't hear you.”

“Well, uh, I said that, or tried to . . .” If I had only thought in advance what I'd talk about. Oh! “An honest car can be cute.” On second thought, I should've kept that to myself . . .

“A car, cute?” Embee was bemusedly intrigued.

The cat was out of the bag now. Hard as it was to admit, though, my apparent femaleness made it more permissible to express my softer side. “I wasn't sure if I wanted to say it out loud, but um, well, you said cuddliness and, um, I thought and then said . . . Yeah, a car can be cute. Like, um . . . a Volvo 144.” Though being rectilinear with hard lines perhaps made it masculine to some degree? “Some of them had these small wipers across their round headlights that gave them a mournful frown that seems to plead for a hug and to be told everything will be alright.” That was . . . femalish, but the real dilemma was on whether to permit or disallow it in the future. I would go back eventually, and as sad as it were, I'd have to then be extremely careful in where, to whom, and how I'd show this side of me again. Also, wipers . . . Something about them . . .

“Oh . . .” Embee moaned. “You'd hug a car?” She then chuckled warmly, and I too felt a warmth emerging all over myself. “That's kind of sweet.”

“It is?” I was genuinely surprised. “Well, of course it is. Um, thanks for understanding. It means a lot,” I said shrinkingly, relieved she hadn't laughed at me. When she wordlessly came close, I already knew what to expect: she did that neck-over-mine pony hug of soothing, empathy, and strength. Like an iguana puzzled by being gently petted, I cast a half-bewildered look around as I said, “Would be great if I had one of those cuties here, so you could see it for yourself. But they were common long before my time.” Being aware that not all of them had survived to this day made me sad. That then led to a dreadful deduction; some heartless miscreants might've actually gone out of their way and deliberately harmed those innocent-looking and completely defenseless cars! Before I could become visibly upset, I sighed and collected myself.

“Well, maybe we're lucky and see one?”

“Maybe,” I replied to Embee's inspirational comment, knowing that I'd then have to put my words into action—assuming I'd be given permission to engage in the interaction of compassion. “But a distinct and appealing look is exactly what caught my attention when I—Oh. Hold on, hold on, this isn't mine to have, but . . .” Images began to whizz before my eyes. “Uhm, be ready to bop me. What I'm going to do is risky, but I fully trust you to do the right thing.”

“Huh?” Embee was caught unaware, maybe just as much as I had been. “Yes, I'm ready.” Raising her limb into a ready position, I became briefly alarmed that she'd beat the literal snot out of me. “What are you going to do?”

“Okay, this will feel weird. I have to talk about things that feel like I was there, experiencing them, in third person . . .” I took a breath. “She wanted a car for a purpose. Found one that was different by its looks, but also upon further inspection . . .” She had requested to see the engine bay. “Less complexity . . .” The engine and its associated components didn't fill out the engine bay; the ground was visible. “Got it, the car, to home, hard as it was to drive, with the difficulties it imposed.” Aware of my increasing confusion, I shook my head lightly and paused momentarily. “In the evening, though . . .” I appraised the unrelated but sufficiently similar vehicle by us, then walked to its outer front wheel. “Checking the wheel, did she, I?” Hesitantly, I gently poked the rubber, mentally apologizing for the unsolicited physical contact. “I'm not sure what that was for. Maybe something was there? I . . . then went inside . . . closed the door. Was she . . . sitting on the seat? Yes. Content and eager.” Burdened with a nascent revelation, I faced Embee. “Have you, have ever . . . had an Oatsam?” I asked.

“Yes . . .” she said warily.

“Oatsam, is what?” Strained, I drew circles in the air to spur her to do the work for me.

“It's an oat cookie . . . and . . . well, they're good, and they come in a package of eight. Oh yes, the wrapper unfolds itself with the touch, specifically when you want it to come off. Some kind of an interaction with a pony's own magic.”

“And that's . . . What, really? It does that? That's amazing!” Although why was this amazing? This invention was hardly new.

“Hon, may I suggest that you stop,” Embee implored gently.

“Yeah, um, well, not yet. I want to know . . .” This stroll along the border of minds was taxing, but if I stayed on this course, I might unshroud the source of my crisis. “There, see . . .” I pointed at the car that I saw superimposed over this other one. “In that, in mine of hers . . .” I could see into it like it was a wireframe render. Pure light was ebbing and flowing like aurora borealis to the front wheels from the seat. I should've made that shorter by connecting it to the steering wheel. What had I connected? “A reactive spell . . . Touch, and it works . . .” The strange daze that I was in began to abate. “Telekinesis. It . . . is the projecting of magic to a desired, normally inert, object or objects. But that requires constant concentration, and controlling a dozen things for protracted duration requires the kind of constitution that I . . . not, she has not . . . Knew this long before . . . got ahold of a car. She ah . . . umh . . . oh wow . . . that's freaky.” The car's bumper pulsed alternatingly between gray and blue; it stopped when I prodded at it in confusion. As I lifted my head, the street lined by an unbroken row of inner-city apartments changed to a parking lot aside a gently curving road with a grassy field on its other side. I became transfixed by sheer confusion, as these two realities behaved like a lenticular image.

“Do you think I can help you a bit?” my pegasus acquaintance said; suddenly I attained a strange sense of clarity despite the bewildering event.

“Well, I truly don't know, but I'll gladly accept it. The most basic and common spell of them all is the mind-projecting spell. By studying it extensively and taking from what I learned, I was able to enchant sections of the car to respond and then maintain a link—” My friend abruptly raised her hoof and jabbed me in the snout. “Hey!” I cried out. Embee didn't even look sorry. “What was that for?” I reached to scrub my—I had a snout? And a hoof and . . . “Oh, of course . . .” Ponies had these, and that was . . . not so fun for me to have. “I . . . I should have not been so adamant . . .” I lamented ruefully, falling to silence as I contemplated expressing gratitude or asking forgiveness.

“Don't worry about, Viv,” Embee said, steadfast but soft. “Now, do you think we should go?”

“Might be a very wise idea.” Shakily, as if unfamiliar with how to move, I took myself from the street back to the sidewalk. I had a careful look around, afraid I had attracted a crowd, but I was in luck. This was a particularly quiet side street off another quiet street. The odd ability of seeing the appearance of my car that obviously couldn't occupy the same space as the Subaru remained. Speaking of wise ideas, I averted my eyes before I'd be sucked in again. “But I don't understand. How could that . . . Whatever she did, how did it put me in here?” As if to spite me, a strong gust drew itself over me like a carpet of unsolicited caresses.

“Maybe it didn't, but do you think Peachy can help you at discovering what did?”

“I don't know the answer to that,” I said, half-vacantly. Embee had taken me out of the fog, but the proverbial moisture lingered on. I hoped I could at least glance at a car without seeing it turn into an apparition.

“Then follow me so we can go ask Peachy herself what she knows and what she can do,” she instructed as she began making her way down the street. Unthinkingly, I glanced at the closeby Subaru. Or I think it was supposed to be a glance, but it held my attention just long enough that my vision was once again filled by the wireframe render, except now the aurora borealis was crisscrossing all over it. Spooked, I looked ahead, where this street merged with a busier one. As hard as I tried not to reflect, that vision showed more of what had been done. It wasn't only about controlling the wheels, but also the pedals, the gear stick, the windows, and redundancy—oh, no, no, no! I couldn't think of this, not now, not here, and maybe not ever!

“You're coming, right?” Embee called from a short way ahead. I took one step; a tiny pebble rolling with a complaint beneath my foot made short order of that. I had one look down and lifted a leg in puzzlement. I was in that strange and confusing moment again where I wasn't quite sure of what I was seeing or feeling. I was this thing, but I wasn't. “Are you feeling fine?”

“I-I am . . . I'm still recovering, soh . . . sorry,” I called back, or tried to. My high register perturbed me, even if it shouldn't. She was naturally okay with this voice, but I was only tolerating it out of necessity, and sadly, incremental—albeit reluctant—acceptance. I caught up to Embee, right as I found my will to speak again, though not the will to look her in the eye. “You must be mad at me.”

“About all that back there with the car just then?” Embee inferred correctly, then hummed lightly. “No, not at all.”

“Are you joking?” I couldn't tell whether she was serious or snide.

“I wasn't,” she said levelly, to my astonishment. “On the contrary, your approach was remarkably intelligent.”

Embee's unfaltering optimism and leniency regarding my obviously careless and unsuccessful venture was simply baffling. Inclined as I was to strongly refute her, I decided to tone it down to skepticism. “How you came to that deduction is beyond me, most likely due to my intellect being beneath yours.”

“Oh, now you are joking.” Embee's casual response instilled me with mounting exasperation, even irritation, not to mention that she indirectly suggested my intelligence was above or on par with hers. “But allow me to explain. You understood the risks, you had me on the ready for when or if you lose control, and I did precisely as you had trusted and expected to do. That to me is an example of forethought and planning.”

Tired of the unrequited praise, I let her know what I thought: “And to me it was plain improvisation.”

Smiling widely at me, she came to a sudden stop. Instinctively, so did I. “Well, then you're a natural!” she said brightly as she poked me lightly in the shoulder.

So stunned was I that not even my instincts could concoct the simplest of rebuttals, and my brain frayed further as it tried to digest her compliment. I had been ready—No, expecting her to call me out, that her doing the opposite was incomprehensible. How could she call me intelligent? I didn't think I was. I was only intelligent in comparison to the people I regularly interacted with. That didn't mean I was genuinely intelligent. At any moment, a person could make me feel dumber than a rock and that . . . That wouldn't feel great. But was it better to feel inescapably inadequate than to let the compliments potentially create a false sense of superiority? No, that'd only lead to deleterious and ultimately destructive depression. A middle ground had to be somewhere. Maybe that middle ground was humility. If so, slipping into the destructive, self-effacing mire was still a dangerous reality.

“Bit busier here,” Embee said suddenly. Indeed, I hadn't even noticed that we had come to the end of the street and were back at the heavily trafficked avenue. I promptly shelved my introspections. “Hmm, should we talk about something? A casual topic?” Embee suggested.

“I guess we could. Let me think of something . . .” I took stock of the active city life whizzing by, now with even more colorful ponies here and there. Some were above the rooflines, gliding along currents like birds. Two descended down to a windowed balcony on the third floor, shared words I couldn't hear, and were soon let in by a pony on the inside. Bedazzled by the sight unimaginable, I set a gaze on Embee that occasionally shifted to her saddlebags that hid her wings. Looking toward the house on the other side of the avenue, Embee produced a smile that all but said she too had entered homes that way. It was then I realized I had become so preoccupied that I hadn't noticed we had stopped. “Oh, um . . . I don't know what to talk about.”

“Really? I was so sure there you'd have it.” Bemused by the sighting of the flying, colorful divergences in reality, her amused chuckle didn't inflict me with embarrassment. Conversely, I replicated her initiative to resume our walk. “Well, I can do the honors. You talked passionately about that car back there, and how cars look. Care to enlighten me on what got you to do so?”

“I don't know, I just wanted to?” I replied, though afterwards I began to look for a deeper cause. I also had to check that we weren't in proximity to overly curious ears. “Could've been a subconscious compulsion fostered by a fear of losing myself, reducing the threshold of revealing what I feel strongly about, even if normally I'd be averse to talk about it.”

She cocked a brow. “Why'd you be averse? Haven't you talked about it with your friends?” She assumed I had friends? She wasn't entirely wrong, but . . .

“Oh, I've considered it, but I'm afraid those guys wouldn't care.” They'd laugh and scoff at my fondness for the plain, cute, and the older, restrained designs, much like how their love of tuning or drifting didn't impress me.

“Guys? Male friends?” Embee had produced a picture where I stood out for reasons I should've anticipated and prepared for.

“Uh . . . Yeah.” Did I want to reinforce her perception, though? Now could be a rare opportunity to cast some doubt, though. “But um, there's four . . . and with me, that's five, and well, that makes one of the guys, too.”

“Does it?” Embee, to my dismay, expressed the wrong kind of doubt. Now she probably thought I was desperate to fit in with a group where I didn't belong. Her false inferral combined with my nervousness robbed me of my courage, and I remained silent. “Well, didn't mean to make it a negative, sorry. It's really nice that you're getting along with guys, but of course, I must ask: Do you have female friends as well?”

Sadly aware that I had let my chance pass, I sighed. “Mom, I guess . . .” I replied apathetically. “But if you mean in my age bracket, uh . . . Cousins, but they don't really count, as I rarely see them, let alone talk with them.”

“Oh, that's a pity.” Under my current mood, Embee's compassion was mildly warming. “Don't they miss you?”

“Eh . . . Maybe. I don't know. If they did, they would've done something about it. It's not like I'm giving them the cold shoulder.” If we talked, though, I'd still be extremely unwilling to stray from the typical and prevailing preconception of masculinity. Sometimes, I envied females for having a cheering crowd urging them to kick stereotypes in the hiney, fight oppression in its many forms, and tell whoever inisted women can't pursue "manly" interests like enduro biking and whatnot can ski into a bog. But if an unchallenged Adonis of all time so much as suggested liking needlepoint, he'd forever be looked at askew as a deranged weirdo who sleeps with men. Double standards, why did they have to exist?

“So, how about a role model? Do you have any?” I put Embee's question under a microscope and tried to see if I could apply it to a character, real or fictional, that was both tough and soft. “I mean, a female role model?” She had to go there?

“I don't need any.” And the instant I gave my terse reply, I envisioned the mane six gasp in unison and then plaintively inquire for a proper explanation, to which I'd apologetically tell that a female role model wouldn't be constructive to my male self-image.

Even Embee had noted my acerbic rebuffal. “Can I ask you something?” she said carefully.

It was for the best I mellow out. “Sure.” I brought out a smirk. “You like to ask me a lot.”

“You can ask me anything whenever you like.” I was glad she was able to chuckle at my perceptive remark, as that meant the minor fracture in the atmosphere had been mended—though that was a strange analogy. “I'd like to ask you what kind of a girl do you see in yourself?”

“What?” I said in a tiny voice, completely blindsided and in disbelief. I wasn't even upset by her using that word. She would eventually use it, I knew, but . . . I wasn't one. I could pretend to be one passively. To actively, though . . . No, I couldn't—I didn't want to! “Did you just, I mean, you did call me that?” I stammered, my internal distress allowing my impetuousness a moment of control.

“A girl? Yes, I did. Would you say it is wrong?” Now I had a second chance to . . . permanently alter the mostly pleasant dynamic we had established.

“Well, calling me that is . . .” If she were convinced I wasn't female, then she might take a less appreciative stance to my vulnerability, emotionality and, yes, femininity. Assuming she'd even lend me the courteous benefits thereafter. “Er, calling me that feels . . . not right. I'm an adult now.”

“I'm not sure what you mean. Is there a cutoff age for being a girl?” Embee inquired bemusedly.

Genuine puzzlement emerged as I took a serious gander at her question. “Uh, I don't know. Never though it had a specific age.” However, concerning myself with a matter that shouldn't even pertain to me convinced me to distance myself from it. “Well, whatever. Seems it's just arbitrary after all.”

“Like its own heap paradox, huh?” Her knowing of that terrestrial concept left me speechless in astonishment. But that was to assume it was an exclusively terrestrial concept . . . “Let's settle it by decreeing that there's no cutoff age. You were a little girl, and now you're a big girl. Once a girl, always a girl!”

Initially irked, I reciprocated her onefold, albeit improvident, merriness with a smile out of politeness—but also as a means to conceal my discomfort and even terror. Just because I had been that . . . this for a little over a day didn't mean I'd always be. Would I?

“But let's go back to my question from earlier.” Hold on! What question? Oh no! “When you think of yourself, when you look at yourself, what kind of a girl do you see yourself to be?” I had an urge to bolt, but I was cognizant enough to know that wasn't a solution at all.

“Well, um . . . I'm . . . I'm not sure I want to . . .” I said timidly, daunted by her question, pondering whether this charade was worth enduring this self-identity crisis. Were I to cast off this adopted alias, I would . . . still have this face and this voice, shrouded in this impertransible veil of femaleness. Would I be more free, or more aware of how trapped I was?

“Are you afraid? You have nothing to be afraid of, hon. I'm not judging.” Embee had most assuredly noticed my dejected demeanor and reticence—and of course she could say that to another female! Alas, that benefit was too precious to risk losing with the revealing of my real identity. I might still have Embee by my side, but I'd be alone with my woes. But I so wanted to be honest . . . and I guess I could.

“The kind that acts stoic and cool, but is actually sensitive.” Considering that I hadn't been doing a stellar job at maintaining that façade as of late, my admission was easy to make.

“And by saying that, even that little, says that you're stronger than you give credit to yourself.” There was poetic, empowering beauty in Embee's simple words, but I felt drained, even a touch defeated.

“I'm glad that you said that.” I smiled appreciatively at her as I battled with a dilemma. I was being more like I wanted to be like, while being less like myself in identity. The horrible irony. I shouldn't have to be more like "Vivienne" to be more like myself!

“Here's a novel idea that I hope will ease your mind,” Embee started after we had navigated past a group of ponies and humans. “Be what you feel like you are, not what you think you should be.”

“I . . . Yes, I've been thinking of that, and it's . . . it'll take some time for me to . . . to not be afraid of being walked over. You understand me?” In all honesty, that was a lesser fear. Changing my character, even for the better, might be perilous when the connection to my true identity was precariously tenuous already.

“Yes, I do,” she said, taking a distinctly sober tone. “Just don't forget that you don't have to be afraid with me.”

“I won't, and appreciate that,” I thanked, painfully aware of how afraid I was of her warm and bright demeanor concealing a morning star of prejudice. I trusted her; I should trust her more, but . . . Could she have been right? Had I now encountered one of those mysteries I didn't wish to unshroud? I had to discover her disposition, though! Somehow. Sometime. Cleverly and surreptitiously. Or in other words, I wouldn't ever, since in trying to do so I'd obviously mess it up in more ways than one and end up humiliated, embarrassed, and disgraced.

“Want to talk about anything?” Embee suggested. It seemed like a warm invitation, oddly enough.

“Yeah,” I replied thoughtlessly, half-aware of my depressed tone. “If you don't mind, I want to talk about cars.” That would be great. It'd be a healing process.

“By all means,” she kindly granted me the permission and privilege.

“I once had a dream where I had a Pontiac Trans-Am, the black kind with a golden eagle painted on it. That was soooo cool. I wouldn't even drive it fast. I'd feel great just being in it, basking in its immeasurable awesomeness.” A billion images spilled across my mental eye like candy from a bag torn open too fiercely, and just as quickly as they rushed by, I had a hold of one for retelling. “Oh, that reminds me of that time me and one of my friends were playing this old racing game. His dad is one of the coolest, collecting old games and consoles. He must have a hundred games or more. So, anyway, instead of driving supercars, we used a cheat code to drive estate cars. That was a lot of fun, because, as the saying goes, it's more fun to drive slow cars fast than drive fast cars slow.”

“Estate car? Pon-te-ack?” Embee verbalized, both confused and intrigued.

With my spirits on the rebound, I felt like I could actually do this. “I'll try to explain . . .”