Trisha bounced into in her seat, smirking devilishly across the diner's table.
"Okay, so here's my favorite shrink joke." She licked her pink lips. "I hope you guys don't mind if I stole it." The young woman waved her painted nails through the air. "This dude goes to visit the psychiatrist, ya see? And the psychiatrist asks him, ahem, 'So when did you first start crossdressing?' And the guy goes, 'Well, when I was little, my mom and dad put me in boy clothes and I was super, super uncomfortable. But then I turned thirteen and started wearing women's dresses, and I've been cured ever since, Doc!'" She slapped the table and squinted left and right.
Persephone grumbled, fussing and fidgeting in the booth cushion next to Trisha. Caelus sat across from her, using a pen to draw a dazzling array of geometric triangles within triangles that somehow brought out the font and images of the bustling restaurant's paper menu in a whole new light.
"Nothing?" Trisha wagged her eyebrows. "Not even a titter?" Silence. She reached forward and rustled the menu beneath Caelus' thick glasses. "Come on, Cosmic Boy! Give me something to work with!"
Jolting in his seat, the man looked up and barked: "Haah haah haah haa—"!
Both Trisha and Persephone winced wildly. "Gaaah!"
"Christ, Cael! No reason to go Eddie Donky Murphy on us!"
"—haah haah haah...!" Caelus stopped on a dime, his face deadpan again. His eyes blinked bulbously. "I'm sorry. Is the joke over, Trisha?"
"'Fraid so, handsome."
"Oh." He gulped and returned to his pen-drawned lines. "It was a good joke."
"Pfft. You're just saying that."
"I am forty-five figures away from a perfect fractal curve," he muttered. "I saw this food in a coffee cup at the laboratory today. I saw it in the chalk dust on the board as well. I didn't have a pen to prove it though..." He licked his lips as he leaned further and further towards the defaced menu. "But I do now."
"Yup." Trisha waved at the man and turned towards Persephone. "He's just saying it." She smirked at the fiddling, squirming pony. "Percy, what'd I tell you about taking horse laxatives mid-day?"
"I'm in less of a joking mood than Cael is, Trisha, if you d-don't mind," Persephone grunted.
"From the looks of it, you're in a friggin' square dance mood. Stop doing the tango with the seat cushions and order yourself some food already, silly filly."
"I'd love to, it's just—."
Trisha giggled. "Do you need the lil' child's butt-seat again?"
"No." Persephone frowned. "I've just been trotting—er... walking a lot more than usual this morning and I can't... nnngh... s-seem to get my legs comfortable!"
"I'd say we order you the onion rings and let the propulsive flatulence push you upright." Trisha winked across the table. "Eh? What do you think of that one, Cael?"
Cael opened his mouth wide.
"No. No no no..." Trisha waved her hand. "No need to laugh. Keep making love to your Atari vectors. Besides, from the looks of Pat Benatar here, we're gonna be stuck shimmying in hunger for a while, eh, girl?"
Persephone slumped back with a pronounced sigh. She glared daggers into the tabletop. "...I'm gonna need the little child's butt-seat."
"Heehee... sure thing, Percy." Trisha raised a snapping finger high, trying to gather a wandering waitress' attention. "Gawwwwwd... the stories I could tell you 'bout the yokels I had to haggle today."
"Please tell me this isn't another one of your jokes coming up."
"Only jokes are the dudes with the Oklahoma accent, thinkin' they can intimidate me over the phoneline," Trisha said, smirking victoriously as she successfully flagged a waitress over. She spoke jubilantly over the sound of yellow cabs whizzing past the diner windows. "'Now listen here, Missy! I dun cotton to ya liberal smartmouths callin' us all hours of the day, peddlin' yer bullshit insurance deals!' Pffft. Man, are all Oklahomans born fat? Cuz they sound fat. Swear to Goddess, they come out of their Mommas' wombs with Jim Ross shoved up their butts."
"Trissssssssh..." Persephone shaded her eyes with a pair of criss-crossing hooves. "Diners can hearrrrrr youuuuu."
"Pffft. What? You a Thunder fan?" The waitress waltzed up and Trisha leaned over Persephone with a Doris Day smile. "Helllllllo! Before we order, would you be so kind as to give us a little child's seat for our booth here? That'd be swelllll, thankies."
The middle-aged waitress' mahogany brow furrowed as she squinted at the party of three. "A child's seat?"
"You know." Trisha opened her mouth, hesitated, glanced at Persephone, then smiled up at the waitress. "Just to hide my purse from the random riff-raff." She waved the straps of her satchel in question, eyes fluttering. "It is a big, scary city, after all. Thanks, darling."
"I'll grab one right away..." The woman's eyebrow raised. "...'sugah.'" And she waddled away.
"Unnnnnnnngh..." Persephone moaned into the tabletop. "I should just carry a phone book with me at all times. I swear."
"Less swearing and more gabbing." Trisha scooted deeper into the booth and whipped out a compact mirror, examining her face and putting finishing touches on her eyelashes. "So how did it go today at the shrink? Did you go Unibomber on the place or what?"
"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not talk about it."
"But you never want to talk about it."
"There's a reason why I don't want you guys knowing about how bad I used to be," Persephone said. She sighed as she stretched a paper menu out before her with the flats of her hooves, straining to peer over the table's edge. "Hell, Trisha, you were there when I was at my worst, quite frankly. Why would you wanna know more?"
"You talkin' about that one weekend where you got Baker Acted?"
"What else would I be talking about?"
"Percy, that was spring break!" Trisha slapped the compact close and smirked aside. "Life's short and disastorously unsexy. It'd be criminal not to party so hard that you get arrested at least once!"
"It's different and you know it, Trisha." Persephone's nostrils flared. "It seems like every single time in my life that I actually try to be myself, it all just friggin' explodes in my face. Spring break or not, I really wish that you weren't around to witness that shit hit the fan."
"March Twenty-First is two hundred seventy nine and a half days from—" Caelus began in mid penstroke.
"Yeah, we got it, Aasimov. Keep to your triangles on this one, 'kay?" Trisha turned to face Persephone again. "Girl, has it occurred to you that you can share this kind of crap with more than just the occasional shrink every now and then?"
"Mmmmm..." Persephone shivered slightly, hugging herself and gazing out the window into traffic. "It's a whole 'nother world, Trish. A dark and scary world."
"Only cuz you let it be." Trisha leaned her head aside with a smile. "Let some light in, gurrrrl, and let us map it out along with you! You and I? We've been through thick and thin!" She then pointed across the table. "And Cael here's good with straight lines! Isn't that right, handsome?"
He glanced up briefly. "Mercator favors Greenland unfairly."
"Sorry. But I just want to sit here, eat, relax, and talk about anything but my screwed-up life," said Persephone.
"Pffft. Fine." Trisha folded her arms. "But sooner than later, you've gotta 'fess up about what went down with Mark Twat at the workplace."
"Huh?" Persephone squinted. "You mean Roger Clemens?"
"Yeah, old Huckleberry Fishtard himself. What'd ya do?" Trisha grinned devilishly. "Shove staplers down his gills?"
"Ungh! For the last time, Trisha, just let it drop!"
"I heard you punted him for a field goal!" Trisha leaned her rosy chin against her palm and smiled. "Seeing that Hayton didn't fire your fine ass, I'm guessing the score went in your favor!"
"Seeing as how I have to show up for a meeting this afternoon, I really don't want an excuse to get my blood boiling over it, thank you very much."
"Ewww..." Trisha wretched. "You gotta go in later?"
"Yes. Yes I do."
"Isn't that a little—I dunno—sick?"
"Yeah, well, for me?" Persephone leaned back against her seat and sighed out her nostrils. "...it's par for the course."
In Step Incorporated held its offices on three stories of a sixty-foot skyscraper located six blocks from the center of downtown. At around three o'clock in the afternoon, it was bustling as ever, with people pacing back and forth from room to room, filling the hallways with the rattle of mugs, the chatter of desk phones, and the humming of copier machines.
Persephone trotted pensively through it all, having to scuffle to a stop every now and then when a hurried pair of legs blurred by, just inches from running her over. Holding her breath, the little pony navigated a long hallway, took a right, and entered a large chamber filled to the brim with cubicles and the stressed organisms inside.
Along the path to her desk, a water cooler rested, and three bitterly familiar figures stood around it—as predicted. Persephone shivered, gritting her teeth as she tilted her head down, desperate not to make eye contact.
"I'm telling you, something big is going down!" stammered a waif of a Caucasian man, his bald head brandishing a slender white bandage as he leaned against the wall and murmured towards the other two. "All these memos flying left and right? It ain't downsizing! Pluto's planning something big to get the edge over the competition."
"You sure about that, Roger?" another hoarsely replied. "I mean, you've got a lot of reasons to be on edge after last week. Maybe you dreamt up something from your concussion."
"I mean it! Philip over in human resources heard something about Pluto planning a 'silver bullet' to be delivered sometime in the next few days to our manufacturing department!" He suddenly frowned. "And I did not have a concussion! I just got a few stitches... is... all..." His eyes wandered down, narrowing. The other office workers turned and blinked.
Persephone gulped. She aimed her muzzle ahead and quickened her pace. The office grew dreadfully quiet in a tight pocket around the mare as she shuffled her way by, then slipped around the corner and practically threw herself into her cubicle. Planting her flank against the inner surface of the felt partition, Persephone caught her breath, shuddering like an escaped P.O.W. At last, finding her strength, she stripped of her backpack and approached her computer desk.
Rolling the chair aside, she caught first glimpse of a piece of paper taped to the top frame of her flatscreen monitor. Squinting, she tried to make the stuff out on the tiny surface, but failed. Holding her breath, she hopped up like a cat and landed in the center of the chair. The thing spun, and she timed herself perfectly, lashing her head out and biting onto the edge of the table. Using her teeth, she pulled herself closer and leaned up towards the monitor to see.
It was black and white clipart, undeniably illustrating a bipedal Hanna-Barbera horse with a mask and cape, swinging a guitar while shouting "EL KABONG!" in a cartoonish speech balloon.
Persephone blew out the side of her muzzle. She glared over her shoulder. Her ears twitched, hearing distant snickers and a hint or two of a chuckling breath. She couldn't tell if she was imagining it or not, but she didn't care. Snapping the clipart off her monitor with her mouth, she crumpled it up and prepared to toss it into the trash. Just then, her phone rang—chirping with the intercom signal.
Startled, she stuck the wadded up cartoon into her blouse parket and squinted down at the phone. She was being paged by someone in the foreign marketing department. Fussing over her desk, Persephone finally snatched up a headset and used the edges of her hooves to slide it over her head and muzzle. Then, grabbing a pen with multiple chew-marks in her mouth, she stuck the thing against the flashing button on her phone and rotated the instrument to the corner of her teeth.
"Mmmmf... Yes, Mable?"
"Persephone? Are you actually here at work today?"
"Yes, Mable."
"Good. I thought you'd be called in, what with the meeting and all. Anyways, keep an eye out. Roger was called in too. No need for you two running into each other again so soon, right?"
"Thanks, Mable." Sighing out her nostrils, Persephone swung the pen back to her incisors and bent over, tapping the red button on the corner of the phone's receiver with a click to hang up.
Swiveling about in her chair, she faced the computer and jerked her neck forward multiple times, like an ostrich. In so doing, she performed an elaborate, well-practiced keystroke with the tip of the pen, bringing up her corporate e-mail and scanning down the highlighted list of items in her inbox. At last, she tabbed over to a message marked '4 o'clock Meeting' and selected it. Her amber eyes darted back and forth, reading along each bracket of the memo. When her gaze finally fell upon the chosen "presenter," she opened her mouth.
The pen rattled to a stop, dead-center in the keyboard.
"Nnnnghhh..." Persephone slumped back into her chair with her forelimbs curled up. "...poop."
Click.
The Powerpoint projection flashed to the cross-section of a length of blue sole-gel, its multiple ribbed lines highlighted by various arrows and bullet points. Persephone sat atop a stool positioned at the end of the conference table. Pivoting, she cleared her throat and pointed a hoof at the image in question.
"Here, you can see In Step's leading model three years ago. This sold through about forty-five percent of the market, which is the best our company has ever done to date. Notice the slender width engineered for the middle? Now, when we look at last year's model in comparison..."
A room of about forty people watched quietly as she reached down and tapped the mouse key of a laptop. The projection flashed to a similar strip of gel, almost identical looking, albeit with a few key differences. Everyone was quiet, save for an errant cough or two.
"The center portion is wider," Persephone said, pointing at the middle part once more. "The reason for this is because our statiticians in the field are reporting a greater area of average surface contact for men's feet, in a sampling taken from over five hundred random New England adults between the ages of twenty-five and fifty." She pivoted once more towards the conference room. "The reason for this is simple. Over the past decade, the arch in the average foot is lessening. Men's feet are basically getting flatter. To compensate for this, our manufacturing division has endeavored to engineer a more form-fitting gel, but this acts as a two-edged sword."
She reached forward and clicked the laptop again, showing off a series of complicated graphs along the dimly-lit room's wall. A few people shifted in their seats for a better view. One person—a slightly portly fellow with thick glasses and thinning gray hair—crossed his hands together and listened intently.
"By broadening the gel and thickening the material, we've inadvertently made our products resemble that of Achilles. Achilles, as you well know, is one of our competitors—however on the lower end of the spectrum. Ever since their disastorous recall of '08, they've fallen by about fifteen percent, having lost several shareholders in the process. We, ladies and gentlemen, do not want to appear like the black sheep of our market, but—according to over ten surveys taken in the last six months alone—most consumers are confusing our materials with the products that Achilles is still pushing. In essence, our products are looking cheap... mmm... dollar store material, at best."
A few breaths chuckled in the room.
"Yes, well, we would very much like to maintain an air of sophistication. However, this doesn't rule out the possibility that we have appealed to the same consumer base that has had no choice but to buy Achilles products over the last three years. That is why the marketing division is now proposing that we begin a new advertising campaign that focuses on the blue collar populace. Will we cite the facts of America's flattening feet earlier than our competitors? Yes, but the aim here is to gloss it over with an appeal to pathos, to show that we care and feel for the working man, and that we acknowledge that service and mantenance jobs are on the rise. And who'll be there to sooth their aching feet in and out of the work place? Why, In Step, of course. By coaxing the consumers to spend a few cents more, we'll be showing them that we can and will give them better quality product. In the end, we won't be cheap, but cherishing."
Persephone clicked the laptop one final time, and the projection flickered to the company symbol. The mare turned to face the group, sitting on folded hooves.
"With this aim now dominating our focus, we will proceed to put extra funding into the advertising division. The next meeting will discuss the different types of slogans that our idea department has pitched forth, and together we'll vote on the appropriate script for the commercial that they've written to life. That concludes this presentation."
Several people murmured in approval. As one worker hit the lights, the old man at the end of the conference table cleared his throat, leaned forward, and said, "Thank you for an expert and professional presentation, Miss Ceres." He turned towards the rest of the meeting. "We will begin addressing this new leg of operations at the start of the following week. I want you all well-rested over the weekend so that we can rack our brains over how to keep from sinking any further than the competition. In Step has supplied millions of happy customers for over three decades, and I intend to keep it going, just like my father before me. You're all dismissed."
Bodies shuffled out of their chairs, conjoining in dense conversations as they shuffled out of the room, one by one.
In the meantime, Persephone hopped down from her stool, shuddering slightly as her four hooves made contact with the floor. Shifting her weight in her clumsy sneakers, she closed the laptop, unhooked it, and slid it into her backpack. As she was closing the satchel—fussing with a loose zipper—she felt a shadow cascade over her. She glanced up, blinking. "Oh... uhm... hello, s-sir."
"Hello, yourself." The portly man with graying hair smiled calmly. "That was quite remarkably done, Ms. Ceres. You do have quite the gift in capturing the attention of the whole office."
"Oh... eheh..." Persephone tried not to wince. "Hopefully only when it matters, Mr. Hayton."
"Please..." The executive waved his hand calmly. "Call me Pluto. It's not like we haven't spoken dozens of times before, Percy."
"Erm... right, Mr. Hayton—er, I mean Pluto." Persephone took a deep breath. "I'm sorry if I seem a little bit on edge. I've been... doing a lot of exercise today."
"Physically or otherwise?"
Persephone blinked. "Sir?"
Her boss glanced towards the rest of the thinning conference room, and then he leaned in with a breathy tone, "I presume you did follow through with company orders today."
Persephone's eyes twitched... then twitched again. "Oh! Oh yes, sir—I mean, yes, Pluto. I've... eheh... I'm sure they'll send an e-mail confirmation of Dr. Sharp's signature soon, if they haven't already—"
"I just wanted to hear it from your own lips, Percy," the man said, sitting a piece of his plump rear over the edge of the conference table as he folded his hands. "I'm not sure if I tell you this enough, but I greatly admire your honesty." He smiled while his eyes narrowed. "It adds a great deal of integrity to this company that I fear is greatly lacking."
"Lacking... sir?"
His eyes darted around again. "You've undoubtedly heard a great bit of rumor circling around since you arrived on site today. The reason for this gossip is part of the problem at hand, but that's not exactly what I'm wishing to talk to you about."
"Oh?" Persephone saw movement out the corner of her eye. She glanced out the door to the conference room, just in time to catch the trailing face of Roger as he drifted past the entrance, glaring suspiciously inside before vanishing. "Uhm..." She looked back at Mr. Hayton. "What's on your mind, Pluto?"
"This new advertising campaign..." The executive shrugged. "It's going to help us tread water a little bit longer, but nothing more." His lips grew tight. "Truth is, it's not the edge we need to trample our competition. There's a great deal more oomph that's required, so to speak. But that's for the engineering department to solve, and solve it they have." His eyes lit up with hunger. "And when we're ready to introduce their new design a few months from now, it's going to kill the competition. Like a silver bullet."
Persephone blinked. "Silver bullet?" She smiled, playing dumb. "What kind of silver bullet, sir?"
"Shhhh... it's a company secret," Hayton said. "A new design that will revolutionize footwear entirely. The thing is, it's so precious to In Step, that I can't even risk the lower departments seeing it. You see, Percy, I'm convinced that we have a mole somewhere in our department."
"A mole?" She squinted. "You mean... a spy?"
"Someone is being slid money under the table to spoil our secrets and ruin our image." Pluto pointed. "That is why we're slipping behind the competition, being compared to those makers of ghetto-fodder, Achilles. I don't know who it is or how they won my confidence, but I have no doubt that they're working very close to the executive levels—possibly even in this very own office."
"That... sounds absolutely horrible," Persephone said with a scrunched-up face.
"Thing is, I don't have the strength nor the resources to embark upon some sort of massive witch hunt. And why should I?" He stood up, shrugging his shoulders. "Too many innocent workers would only suffer in the process, and I'm no monster, Percy. At least... not when I have to be," he added in a grave tone.
"Erm... right..." Persephone fidgeted. "May I ask you a question, Mr. Hayt—erm... Pluto?"
"By all means."
"Why are you telling me all of this? I mean... just me and not the rest of the office?"
"In truth, a few others already know. But as for you?" Hayton pointed. "I trust you. You have a humility about you... not to mention a sincerity and a diligent steadfastness that makes everyone else pale in comparison. I'd say you believe in this company more than most workers believe in their own families."
"Eheh..." Persephone glanced down at her backpack as her sneaker'd hooves kneaded the edge of her satchel. "I will admit. Working my way up the corporate ladder has been a real help in... uhm... getting my mind off of a lot of other issues in my life."
"Issues that can jeopardize one's career?"
Persephone flashed a look up, blinking.
"I had to pull a lot of strings to keep you with the company, Percy," Hayton said, his eyes hardening and melting within the span of a single sentence. He leaned forward, causing the lines in his face to darken. "After what happened last week, it's rather... fortunate for both of us that we are having this conversation right now."
Persephone gulped, then gently nodded. "Yes, Pluto. And I'm very... very grateful for that, sir."
He smiled slightly. "It's not so much your gratitude that I desire, but rather your commitment towards a healthy and viable solution." His face grew hard again as he stood up from the edge of the table and adjusted his business suit. "Now, please tell me, how did your first meeting with the prescribed psychiatrist go?"
The mare opened her mouth, hesitated, but ultimately said with a limp smile, "Swimmingly, sir."
"Are you going in for more than one session?"
She nodded. "It looks that way, sir."
"Good. It'd be rather unrealistic if that wasn't the case," Hayton said with a slight chuckle. "My younger sister once had a frightening, uphill battle with claustrophobia that made the life of a stewardess rather difficult, to say the least. It took her almost an entire year of therapy—much less a few visits—to set things right."
"I... uh... I promise you, sir." Persephone cleared her throat. "I'm on the road to recovery. What happened last week will never tanspire again."
"And yet we both know that's only the half of it. Tell me." He squinted. "Has anybody bothered you since? Antagonized you in your department over the whole deal?"
"I... I..." Persephone winced.
"Hmm? Speak up, Percy. I certainly don't tolerate a hostile working environment."
The pony took a deep breath. She raised a hoof to her blouse. Her hoof felt the crumpled paper cartoon and... shoved it deeper down the pocket.
"No, sir." Persephone slowly shook her head. "Nobody's been giving me any trouble." She smiled cutely. "Everyone's been perfectly understanding."
Hayton stared at her for a few seconds. Then he smiled. "Well, that's wonderful news." He reached down and patted her shoulder before standing up straight. "You're a very resourceful lady, and I intend to see that you make it far in this company." He smiled. "Who knows? Someday, there could be an executive chair waiting for you to fill in the not-to-distant future."
Persephone grinned from ear to ear, her tail flicking. "That... is a nice prospect indeed!"
"Just remember." He fidgeted with his sleeves and shuffled out the door in a waddling gait. "The company is making big moves in the future, and only the most honest... and the most trustworthy will bask in the profit that's to come." He lingered at the door, casting a murky glance over his shoulder. "I do... have your trust, of course, Percy?"
Her smile left, and she very swiftly uttered, "Absolutely, Pluto. One hundred percent."
"Good." He nodded. "I'll remember that." He he left the room.
Persephone sat down on her haunches, gazing dully at her backpack, her ears drooped in thought.
"If you ask me, it's borderline harrassment. The dude's trying to intimidate you by playing Reverend Sweet Uncle Santa MacDonald! I'd say drop him like a bad habit and have him pull this 'silver bullet' bullshit on another weak-legged female employee!"
"It's not that simple, Trisha!" Persephone grumbled into her headset. She spaced her words out so that her tongue could flick the pen into the center of her teeth and tap another keystroke into the e-mail she was preparing on the computer before her. "Mmmmf—He's gone out on a limb for me, and he's basically preparing me to go out on a limb for him."
"Well, what the Hell for?!" Trisha's voice squawked through the headphone in the pony's left ear.
"Beats the stuffing out of me, but I'm already being pressured to do these stupid little therapy sessions to cover up for last week's disaster with Roger. The last thing I wanna do is ruffle the feathers of my executives by appearing as a stick in the mud!"
"What I can't for the life of me understand is why you're bending over backwards to make all of these fat cats happy? For one thing, Roger deserved what happened to him—"
"Mmmmf!" Trisha shoved the pen to the corner of her jaws and frowned. "Trisha, you don't even know what happened with Roger."
"Only because you won't tell me, silly filly! And for another, these guys should put more money into paying you for all of your grief instead of channeling it into these stupid, burueacrtic medical appointments! I mean... for Goddess' sake! There's nothing friggin' wrong with you!"
"Do you even forget who you're talking to?"
"No, but I have forgotten what time it is."
"Mmmf... It's seven o'clock."
"Jesus Christ on a bicycle! What the Hell are you even doing over there this late?!"
"Making up for lost time. I had a week of sick leave, after all." Persephone typed, typed, typed, and returned to mumbling into the phone. "Well, okay, maybe just a few days. But still, I'm behind on wrapping up the notes from today's meeting and—"
"Percy, I swear, your workaholism is gonna be the end of you."
"Or the beginning of a beautiful executive career."
"Is that what Mickey's dog told you?"
"Maybe."
"Girl, if I were you, I'd give them all one big swift kick in the keister and wake them the Hell up."
"Unnnngh..." Persephone ran a hoof over her face. "Trisha, please, this isn't what I called you for..."
"Sure it was! Now listen, you want a real prescription for good meantal health? Jump out of that cubicle and shout 'screw everyone and their rotten ideas of what is or isn't right!' And then strip naked, gallop into the boss' office, jump on his desk and scream 'I'm a horse and you're an asshole and I want my raise and I want it now, dammit!'"
"Dammit, Trisha, I'm being serious here!"
"So am I, ya apple-chucker!"
"Trisha..." Persephone growled into her headset. "When are you gonna realize that not everyone can afford to be as self-confident and free as you?"
"Well, maybe everyone should just try harder! Ya ever think of that?"
Persephone frowned, her nostrils flaring. She shrugged into the air of her cubicle. "Okay, look, I'm really not in the mood to talk anymore. I'll be home later, but not before I go do something to clear my friggin' head."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"What the Hell do you think?" And Persephone spat the pen against the phone receiver's red button.
Cl-clack!
Night had fallen over the city by the time Persephone walked up the steps to the sixth story gymnasium on the edge of downtown. Dazzling lights flickered outside the windows, rivaling the stars in yellow and gold brilliance. Far from the noisy streets and grimy alleyways, Persephone trotted her way through a large open room lit by fluorescent bulbs. Several mats were layed out, upon which a smattering of atlhetic night owls stretched and performed cardio exercises.
A stout woman with bushy blonde hair and glasses smiled and waved as Persephone trotted by. "Good evenin', Percy," she said in an English accent. "Fancy yourself some calory burnin'?"
"Only thing I'm burning is a candle at both ends, Irma," Persephone said, panting. She motioned with her head past her backpack. "You might wanna consider renting those stairs and having people run laps up and down them, for that's half the workout right there!"
Imra chuckled, waving back. "Track's all yours, gorgeous. Just try not to make us all look bad, ya endurance prodigy you."
"Ohhhhh..." Persephone trotted towards the lockers, exhaling once she was out of earshot. "You have no idea."
For the next fifteen minutes, Persephone fought a long, fumbling battle with her clothes inside the lockerroom. Despite the blunt nature of her hooves, she was finally able to peel off her blouse and pants and instead slip into a pair of blue running shorts with a matching spandex top. Slumped on the changing bench, she leaned back, catching her breath. Not long later, another young woman shuffled in, sat down, and opened her gym bag. She caught Persephone's breathless figure out the corner of her eye and spoke with a smirk.
"Coming out of it or going in?"
Persephone gulped and bent over her backpack. "Going in."
"Heh. More power to ya, sister. This is my third week here."
"Oh really?" Persephone pulled her shoes out. "I lot count at about one hundred."
"Veteran, huh?" The lady blushed. "Who am I to speak, then?" She giggled inwardly, then flashed a look at the pony's shoes. "Hey! That's a good idea!"
"Hmmm?" Persephone glanced aside while fitting the first two hooves into the sneakers. "What is?"
"Packing two pairs of running sneakers!" The lady winked. "In case the first ones wear out, you got a pair to quickly replace them!"
Persephone stared, blinking. "Yeah..." She shuddered slightly, staring into one of her shoes. "Good th-thinking on my part, I guess." A beat. She groaned, stuck her head in deep, and pulled out a flapping piece of blue sole gel. "Nnnngh... God, I hate these damn things." She then stuck her front hooves into the shoes, unimpeded.
Persephone stretched towards her left side, then towards her right. She hopped and ran in place, limbering up her legs. All the while, her eyes remained locked on the gymnasium's brightly lit track, much like an infant might long for the presents beneath a Christmas Tree.
Taking a deep breath, Persephone pressed forward. It was an awkward trot at first, on account of the floppy sneakers encasing her hooves. However, as soon as she built up speed and threw herself into a steady canter, she more than compensated for the imbalance.
Persephone's breaths came and went in a steady, practiced rhythm. When she rounded the bend along the edge of the track, she passed by Irma—who was speaking with another gym specialist. The woman looked over, adjusted her glasses, and gave the pony a thumb's up.
Persephone flashed a meager grin. Her tail flicked as she nodded, breezing past Imra and a few exercising clients on the side. At last, she came upon her favorite part, the first straightaway of the evening. Being that it was late at night, there were few other people using the track, and that gave Persephone a straight path to gallop.
And gallop she did—not too quickly and not too slow. Her speed built up, her hoofsteps masking over the thumps of her heartbeat. Once she reached a speed that sent her mane billowing behind her, she closed her eyes, reveling in the movement, in the flouncing motions that swept her body away. Her legs dissolved into the adrenaline of the moment, and it was as though she was gliding, soaring, coasting over green field after green field in her mind. She forgot all about the hard lines on Pluto Hayton's face. She forgot about the bandage across Roger's balding head. She forgot about Mable's page and Trisha's barking voice and Caelus' mumbling numbers.
At last, she forgot about Dr. Sharp's words and all of the copiously tangled memories attached to them, like parasites leeching off her pained spirit. Everything melted away except for the naked now—the blood rush and the clops of her hooves through the masking soles of her shoes. They had always felt like anchors to her—much like her clothes—but she couldn't tell that they existed anymore, not with the heat and the sweat and the wind in her mane. It was an artificial wind, true, but she had learned to accept it for what it was. That was what gave her energy to return to this endurance run every day, every night, every afternoon that presented itself.
And before she knew it, Persephone's left brain had finished counting up to forty-five, and she forced her eyes open. As predicted, she had reached the far bend of the track. Slowing her movement slightly, she navigated the turn, aligned herself with the next straightaway, and closed her eyes to repeat the euphoric experience again.
She smiled for the first genuine time since staring at a television set on the street corner that morning. Her ears twitched, her tail flicked, and Peresphone was gone.
An hour and a half of trotting, subway sitting, and elevator riding later—and Persephone arrived at her apartment. She fumbled with the keys for sixty seconds longer than her grumbling self had hoped to. At last, opening the front entrance, she shuffled inside, closed the door behind her, and locked it.
Her ears rang from the insufferable silence... from the hulking gravity of the day cascading all over her sweaty, aching shoulders all at once.
With a dull groan, she trotted towards the bathroom, dragging her backpack like a comfort blanket across the dimly-lit room along with her.
She took a long, delicious lavender bath, but it didn't even remotely comfort her, not like the exhausting run at the gymnasium had. So, as she soaked, she leaned her water-slicked mane back and imagined she was running again instead. Her muzzle pronounced a few unintelligible words, and she started rearing her hooves slowly and quietly above her, tossing a few loose bubbles into the humid air. Her eyes opened thinly, but all she saw was eggshell white tile, and she sighed.
After a thorough rinse, she emptied the bathtub, dried herself, and wrapped two towels around both her body and her mane. She pushed a tiny stool over so that she could stand high enough above the edge of the sink to see herself in the mirror. Once there, she slid her hoof through a custom-made loop attached to a toothbrush and assaulted her mouth with paste. About two minutes into the hygenic affair, she spat into the sink—then froze in place, hunched over. She tilted her foamy muzzle up, squinting into the mirror.
All was silent. There was no rattling sound. No hushed breath. And most certainly no whispery pronunciation of her name.
Persephone stared, squinted, then groaned inwardly. With a splash of muzzle, she wiped both her mouth and the sink clean and retired for the night.
She didn't freeze again until she stood at the edge of her bed, fumbling with her nightgown and underpants. She paused, staring at her dangling hooves, mentally comparing the uselessness of shoes to the uselessness of garments altogether. Suddenly, the words Trisha had said over the phone came back to haunt her. The hairs on the edge of the pony's neck rose up, and she glanced over her shoulder, facing the general direction where both of her roommates slept.
With a sigh, she slid the rest of her front forelimbs through the nightgown's sleeves and climbed into bed. She sat there for a good ten minutes, brushing her mane and staring into space. Her amber eyes glazed over from the exhaustion of the day, from the many thoughts mingling together, and all of them growing more dark and lonesome by the minute. So, to mask it all over, she put the brush away and switched the light off.
Rolling over under the covers, she swiftly hugged a body pillow to her chest and sighed, murmuing into the covers over and over.
"I am a person... I am a person..."
Somewhere, a little filly cried, lying in the same position, hugging a rocking horse to her chest instead.
Persephone blocked it out by clenching her eyes shut, continuing her mantra to the shadows. "I am a person... I am a person... I am... a p-person..."
It did little to calm her breaths, nor did it prevent the moisture lining the edges of her eyes. Nevertheless, tiredness lulled her into the night, and with a final flick of her slender tail, like an interrobang to a torturous day, she lay still.