//------------------------------// // 12. Swim, Not Sink // Story: Pinkie Pie Swear // by Annuska //------------------------------// Time moved on, but slowly—  and Fridays seemed to move along the slowest. They had been difficult before the battle, but harder after – before, there was some slight hope, some chance, that one day, Sonata would walk back through those doors, sound the shop bell’s un-novel sound, bound up to the counter in such a way that she nearly teetered over it, held onto the edge only by her palms – but now, it felt final, definite, the end. Lights out, curtains, end of the show. Metaphors tangled up in the reluctantly-cooled caramel and confetti and – whatever else. Pinkie, true to her diligent nature, never abandoned her shifts on these days – even at the exact moment that, months earlier, she would have spun around to greet Sonata, giving the same enthusiasm she fancied her to once again walk through the doors with – but the enthusiasm for Fridays had diminished and though it was a slow hour anyway, Pinkie now spent it standing behind the counter with her head in her hand, her other arm slung over the cold display case. It was more comfortable than being slung over a drum set, at least. Sure, there was shop to keep – items to be inventoried, cups to be stacked, orders for the coming week to be queued – but she felt, in that hour, what she imagined a caffeine crash to be like. (Of course, she could never be sure, having very sensibly kept her distance from more than moderate amounts of caffeine.) Even if she and Sonata had a few falling outs, even if Sonata was a siren, even if Sonata had absorbed her and her friends’ magic and used it against them by way of an astral projection while she floated with pretty translucent wings on stage with her eyes all reddened out – even if all that, despite all that, no matter all that, Pinkie still really, really, really, really, really missed Sonata. Really. And she still really, really (ad nauseam) felt guilty about the entire ordeal, despite knowing any action she and her friends had taken was, at its core, necessary. It was, wasn’t it? Even if it seemed cruel? Pinkie pushed herself off the display case, wiping the glass off with cleaner and a cloth, turning to busy herself with wiping down the counter behind her. It had been two months; there was little use in dwelling on it now, even if that particular hour drove her nostalgia astray and pulled some tissue paper from the gift bags and—sticky metaphors—party metaphors—clean the counter, focus, Pinkie, focus, focus-pocus— The shop bell sounded its decisively un-novel sound and she stiffened, feeling her curls spring up into themselves, as if the sound of it at the very hour that had once belonged to her and Sonata was a personal offensive, an attack on her last nerves, and she mumbled a half-hearted, formal "welcome," vaguely bitter that someone else would intrude upon this time—but it was a ridiculous way to feel and she knew it, and so she set the rag down, exhaled, put on a smile, and turned around to greet— a girl with blue hair in a high ponytail. Pinkie's smile faded and she stood unblinking until finally the girl met her eyes and smiled sheepishly with a single word: “Hi.” “He—Hey-a,” Pinkie stammered, stepping closer to the counter, her eyes falling momentarily. There was no black ribbon, no pretty red gem for the light to reflect off of, and the void around her neck was almost jarring. Eyes lifted again, Pinkie continued as steadily as possible (which was not at all), “What can I get’cha . . . ?” Sonata held onto her arm behind her back, slouching to the side slightly as she perused the menu despite rattling her order off as if she’d had it in mind before even walking in. “Three milk teas and a large bag of cookies.” She paused, then added, “Please.” Pinkie glanced past Sonata, but saw neither Adagio nor Aria in the café. Sonata caught her glance. “It’s, uh, just me. I thought I’d surprise them. They’ve been sorta down lately and . . . who doesn’t like a surprise, right?” “Right,” Pinkie repeated, a slow smile finding its way to her lips as she picked up the shop’s tablet, sliding her finger across the screen before tapping in Sonata’s order. “You know,” she started, glancing up a moment before focusing on her typing again, “we’re having a special. Buy three drinks and a bag of cookies and get a Saturday night date free. No charge.” Sonata giggled. “Do all your customers get that one?” “Just the special ones.” “In that case,” Sonata said, balancing on a single leg as she leaned over the counter and planted a (modest) kiss on Pinkie’s cheek before continuing, “I’ll be back tomorrow.” Pinkie smiled a bit wider. “Promise?” “I promise.” “Swear?” “I Pinkie Pie swear. Cross my heart, hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye.” “I can’t believe you remember that!” “I can’t believe you’d think I’d just forget!” And Sonata laughed – and so did Pinkie – and Pinkie kissed Sonata’s cheek in delayed return, and a customer behind Sonata gave a breath of audible impatience and they laughed again and they completed the order and it was a perfectly normal, routine, mundane transaction, but it left them both feeling lighter the rest of the day – significant for being so naturally buoyant on their own.