//------------------------------// // You Just... Can't See Him From the Road // Story: Fly West, Love, Towards Canterlot // by Cynewulf //------------------------------// It’s amazing what you notice and what you don’t. I sigh and wipe my sweaty brow with a hoof as he chuckles. “Good day, eh, Caramel?” I nod, smiling. And it had been. I’d done a lot of thinking, working my long line of trees. I work at the farm for the Apples during the harvest and the planting, and this stretch of land is almost becoming as familiar to me as my own apartment in Ponyville. Ponies are always surprised when I tell them that I work seasonally like this, on a farm. Of course, a lot of my friends don’t know much about where I come from. Mostly they know that I paint, and they know sometimes that I sell paintings up north to Manehattan. That’s true, sure enough. Big Mac lays back on the cart and chews on his little stalk of grass like he always does. But I’d been thinking. Why, I have no idea. But I’d been looking over at the rows to my left, where he bucked apples out of the tree without a word. Big Mac doesn’t talk much, but he smiles like a champion. To be fair, he doesn’t really need to say much, because he’s fine with the silence and when he looks at you, it speaks volumes. At least, it always did for me. When we were foals, we could go a long time without much talking. I thought a lot about running along the dirt roads with Mac, before he ever got his yoke. And I thought about my own family’s farm, farther south. We lived and worked just north of the Riverlands, before Pa lost his farm and we ended up working on the Apple’s land. And I had thought about Mac. Perhaps it’s the artist in me, rearing its ugly, acrylic-stained head, but I can’t help but notice. How he’ll sometimes pause in the work day and smile a soft smile when he thinks no one is looking. He’ll just look out over the land that his family loves and love it along with all of them and seeing him happy made me smile. Or how he works with a kind of devotion I can only dream of replicating, how he goes on and on, energy burning like a mighty flame. I sit on the cart beside him as the other hooves get water and talk about going into town. I glance over at him, and shiver. I... How his green eyes light up when he gets an idea. Or how like my father he would rather be broken then give up, no matter how heavy the burden or tough the task. How he works until the bell for supper and then sometimes just a little after, and will not do anything less than his best. How he smiles and... it makes me happy. I shake my head and look away from him. I’ve always wanted to paint him. I wonder if he’d understand, but the desire has been there... gosh, how long? I even had kind of a scene in mind: Mac, standing in the orchard like always, but in one of those pauses in the workday. I imagined what it might be like today as I worked. My eyes find him again almost of their own accord. They run across his well-toned body, his legs hard with muscle from work and honest toil. He’s a sketchbook’s dream, all glorious detail and figure. The mares in town all watch him walk the streets, on the rare days he goes to Ponyville. I always watch him too, and always tell myself it’s for aesthetic purposes. Mostly. I have no idea why he weighs so heavily on my mind, but he does. It’s like the yoke he’s laid down between us is on my neck now. I can feel it, and suddenly I’m caught between two inexplicable notions: flight and speech. What do I want to say? I have only this sort of nameless feeling. It’s rooted somewhere in a welcome smile and wise green eyes and how his mane is flowing and how he smells of the earth our mother and how... How maybe it’s not just that I want to paint him. It occurs to me that I’ve only ever done portraits of loved ones. My mother. My sisters, laughing as our father takes them on a ride. My cousin in her mourning black, from my memory. And now I want to paint a new painting, contemplate something else, and it’s him. And for some reason it scares me. When I paint, I think and I focus. I look at the object, I meditate on it, I try to figure out what it means to me and why I want to do what I want to do. “Hey, Mac,” I say, and I hear my voice shake. He opens one eye, curious. “Yeah, Caramel? Whatcha need?” “I... I just wondered if you were busy.” “Hm?” I fidget. My hooves shake. I cough. I paint things, I find, because I want them to continue on. Because I love them. “I mean, if you’re not... we could... hang out, I guess.” My voice is weak, and I curse it for its betrayal. I’ve got a reputation. Not a bad one, of course, but one all the same. Big Mac knows what way I swing. He’ll see right through my pathetic attempts to play it cool, and he’ll see what I’m thinking. Those beautiful sharp eyes see more than he lets on, I’ve learned that well. Because I think I love him. Maybe I always did. Maybe I didn’t until this very moment, thinking about why I want to paint a portrait of him and how he makes me shake and how I love his smile and his bassy voice. Maybe I always loved him, when I looked for him from the road, and was sad when I couldn’t see him on my way to town. Maybe it’s why I always come back here, whether I need the money or not, because I want to see him and I want him to see me and say hello so that I can say hello back, so that we can talk and he can smile at me and we can be friends. Because I want to be that, that much I’m sure of. I want him to like me. Because I like him. And I’m afraid because I don’t know if it’s something he’ll return. He raises and eyebrow, and I want to flee. “Eenope. Not busy.” I let out a breath. “Well...” “Sure.” And I promptly shut up, because that is all I need. He grins at me with that smile and my heart melts. I can practically hear it do so. My hooves want to jump and dance with elation, and my head spins from confusion. My thoughts trip over themselves. “Whatcha got in mind?” I have no idea.