Rarity stared at the withered, blackened nub of a candlewick as its last embers of flame faded to nothing. The candle was a stubby, melted mess, dripping creme-colored wax onto the pristine white tablecloth.
Elegant violin music filled the dining room, complementing the clinking of cutlery against porcelain and the hushed chatter and occasional laughter of private conversations. The same scene had played out over and over again over the two hours that Rarity had waited in the restaurant: dining couples joked and giggled and gazed into each other's eyes with a sickening lack of subtlety; they ate their entrees and sipped their wine and smiled through their desserts before excusing themselves and leaving together and being quickly replaced by another couple who occupied the same space and performed almost the exact same routine. The players changed, but the lines, the choreography, and the stages remained the same every time.
And Rarity was in no way jealous of it. Not in the slightest. What reason would she have to be jealous of those other couples and those other mares in the restaurant? Because their dates had bothered to show up? Because they didn't look like fools as they filled up on complimentary bread and downed glass after glass of tap water? Because they could afford to order actual spring water, or wine, because their dates who had shown up after promising to pay for everything and assuring them that bringing money wouldn't be necessary actually had kept their word? Because they wouldn't have to face their best friends the next day, after gushing to them all week about their big Saturday night date with the finest catch south of Canterlot? Because they wouldn't have to endure pitying glances and words of sympathy from ponies who expected this sort of thing to happen after so many false starts with so many stallions over the years?
Jealous? Her? For those petty reasons she seethingly enumerated to herself? Dross.
Rarity folded her forelegs on the table in front of her and dropped her chin on top of them. Grumbling to herself, she buttered a heel of a stale baguette and munched from it, chewing rapidly like a very grouchy rabbit who had been stood up on a promising date for the umpteenth time. Not that she was upset, oh no. That was just an overly narrow simile with no bearing whatsoever on her situation. She was having the time of her life dining alone… in an elegant restaurant… surrounded by happy couples who gazed adoringly at one another, all bathed in intimate, romantic candlelight.
"Darling."
The voice came from a table at her left. Rarity, who was enjoying herself far too much with her heel of buttered bread to lift her head off of her cheerfully folded forelegs and turn the minute number of degrees necessary to see for herself what was happening, rotated her ear in that direction to listen. A young stallion's voice, belonging no doubt to some snobby heartbreaker, spoke in nervous, yet adoring, tones to a mare who no doubt would be better off without having her heart toyed with and dashed asunder by him, or by any of his detestable male ilk.
"Darling," he said again, "six years ago tonight, I first confessed my love for you, in this very restaurant, at this very table. I have cherished every moment with you since then. And now, tonight, I want to ask you for the honor of letting me cherish the rest of my life with you. Darling, will you marry me?"
Oh, please, she thought as the restaurant patrons gasped and murmured. Surely you can see right through him, my dear. Get out while you can. This can only end with you sobbing alone in the middle of your darkened boutique with a half-empty bottle of Merlot and a pile of shattered dreams and fantasies that will never come to fruition.
Rarity briefly mulled the possibility that she was projecting onto the mare. She discarded the thought as foolish.
Rarity heard the choked, happy sobs of a mare, a half-coherent, wet-sounding "yes, oh yes," professions of love and devotion, cheering and stomping applause from the other restaurant patrons – and Rarity, whose last thread of patience suddenly tore, slammed her hooves onto her table, lifted her head, glared heatedly at the other restaurant patrons, and snapped "Oh really now, some of us are trying to eat in peace!"
The restaurant fell uncomfortably silent as everypony – the wait staff, the maitre'd, the newly engaged couple and the rest of the happily coupled restaurant patrons – stared at the elegantly dressed white unicorn with the impeccably coiffed mane, who sat alone at a table with a melted candle, four crumb-filled wicker baskets, two menus, and an unused and upside-down wine glass. The room reeked of pity, and just then, Rarity wanted to be anywhere but there.
"Garcón?" she called as she turned back to her own table.
Her waiter dashed to her side. "Has Madame decided vat to order?"
For a moment, Rarity was tempted to stay, throw caution to the wind, and order the most decadent, fattening dessert she could afford with what few bits she’d brought. It was only the realization that she'd have to dine under the mortifying gaze of the other patrons that kept her from doing just that. Besides, at the end of the night, she would still be alone, the only difference being that there would be more of herself to be alone with.
"No," she mumbled, eyes downcast. "I believe I'll be on my way. My apologies for taking up space all night." She pushed away from the table with a sigh.
"Madame," said the waiter insistently.
Rarity blinked, shook her head. "Oh yes, how rude of me. Terribly sorry." She dug into her purse for a few bits and dropped six on the table. "For your trouble." She hadn't ordered anything or spent any money, and she was pretty sure that 25% of zero was… well, zero… and that she was vastly overtipping, but Rarity would never let it be said that she had stiffed a server.
The waiter glared down his nose at her. "Ze bread." He gestured at the four wicker baskets that had contained what passed for Rarity's dinner. "Only ze first basket iz complimentary."
Rarity's jaw dropped. "Wha – but – it's – it's bread!" she said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "What kind of restaurant charges a fee for refills on bread?!"
The scandalized, pitying lookie-loos in the restaurant stared at her while trying very hard to appear as though they were not staring at her.
"Ve do advertize it as such on ze menu, madame vill recall," said the waiter. He lifted the unopened menu on the other side of the table, flipped it over, laid it in front of Rarity, and gestured at a little message with an asterisk beside it in the bottom-right corner of the back page:
*Bread refills: four bits each.
Scowling, Rarity dropped an extra twelve bits onto the table. "This is fraud. This is highway robbery. This is… this is… fraudulent highway robbery!" She turned her nose in the air and made her way to the exit.
"Madame."
Rarity turned back around, murder in her eyes.
The waiter coughed. "Ze gratuity."
Rarity's jaw clenched so hard that she thought for sure she'd cracked at least one tooth. "You want gratuity?" She stalked back to the table, opened her purse, and upended it onto the table. All of its contents – make-up, handkerchief, compact mirror, and what money she'd thought to bring with her to an evening where she was told not to bring money – rained onto the wax-covered table cloth.
"There," she snapped. "Gratuitous enough for you?! Maybe you can use it to pay for voice lessons – just who do you think you're fooling with that phony accent?!"
The waiter's eyes widened, and his gaze darted from side to side. "H-hey, not so loud," he whispered, his suddenly unaccented voice cracking. “I could lose my job!”
"Bah! Bah, I say again!" Rarity turned on her hooves and strode toward the door, attempting to radiate the poise and dignity that she proudly considered her trademark. She reached the door, nudged it open, and whirled for a final indignant glare at the restaurant that seemed intent on beating her down.
Every eye in the dining room was once again upon her.
Rarity blushed. "And just what are you all looking at?!"
Their gazes were quickly averted; the hushed chatter and clinking cutlery resumed. With a dignified "hmph," Rarity made her final exit, walking into the balmy summer evening.
The night was moonless, a tapestry of stars woven into the brilliant purple sky. Gas lamps cast a warm white light on the street as ponies went about their nighttime business, paying little heed to the white unicorn in the majestic blue gown tromping down the street. In the distance was a great wheel of flickering lights, and the faint, far-off sound of laughter and calliope echoed in the night. The carnival, she remembered. Tonight was supposed to be the last night it was in town.
She'd thought about going all week, had considered taking her sister even, but her plans for Saturday were made on Monday, and the rest of her waking hours that week not devoted to filling out her preexisting orders were spent preparing an outfit worthy of the occasion. The carnival fell to the wayside. Tomorrow, she'd promise herself, and when tomorrow came, the goalpost moved to the day after that, then the day after that, until she simply ran out of time to go. After tonight, it'd be gone for the year, and while she regretted missing it, her date was so promising that it more than made up for that disappointment.
Of course, now that her night had just opened up, she could attend at her leisure. She was sure she'd find the irony hysterical later.
"Now now, Rarity, chin up," she said to herself herself as she strode down the street. "Tonight wasn't a complete disaster. You had an excuse to dress up; you were able to treat yourself to some fresh baguettes; you availed yourself of the trappings of high society… or what passes for it in Ponyville, anyway. Why, all told, this was probably one of the better dates you've been on in recent memory." She nodded to herself. "Yes indeed, and all it cost you was twenty-five bits, the rest of the contents of your purse, and…" Her shoulders slumped. "Most of your dignity. Oh, I can't even fool myself."
There was a bench nearby; it wasn’t as plush as the furniture she preferred falling to pieces on, but it’d do. She flopped onto it, carefully minding the hem of her dress so as not to catch and tear it. Her facade of poise and confidence collapsed, and for the first time that night, she allowed herself to shed some of the tears that had been welling behind her eyes. She sniffled and wiped at them, felt something stickier and more viscous than just tears, lifted her hoof for inspection, and frowned at the streak of black running halfway up her fetlock. "Lovely. Just lovely." No doubt a similar streak now ran across the side of her face where she’d wiped it, too. Her horn shimmered and her magic chimed as she opened her purse and reached for her handkerchief and compact mirror to—
“Oh. Right." She slumped in her seat and chuckled bitterly. "Well, whatever. Who am I even trying to impress? It's not as though I have anywhere to be right now." She dropped her purse beside her with a huff, shut her eyes, and buried her face in her hooves.
"Rarity?"
Rarity's ears perked and her eyes opened. "Spike?" The diminutive purple dragon stood in front of the bench, his tail held tight in his hands. Slung across his body was a courier bag that he often wore when conveying parcels for Twilight. It doubled as a purse, too, though he'd heatedly deny it whenever the term was used
She quickly straightened her posture and forced a shaky smile. "Spike, my dear, how wonderful it is to see you! What are you doing out so late?"
Spike hesitated, nervously wringing his tail. Lamplight glinted off the antique brass watch around his wrist, last year's birthday gift from Princess Luna. "I was running errands for Twilight out here when I saw you storm out of the restaurant." He spoke quickly, and sounded uncharacteristically nervous. Odd, that. He'd grown so much more confident about talking with her over the years.
"So," he continued, face downcast and eyes glancing shyly up toward hers. "Big date didn't go so well?"
"Oh, on the contrary!" Rarity's tone was unconvincingly buoyant. "It's been a magical evening. Why, I'm not sure where my beau scurried off to," she said, glancing hither and thither and making a grand show of it, "but I do hope he hasn't gone too far!" She turned that fake smile on Spike again. "What could possibly have given you the impression that I'd be anything but absolutely positively one hundred percent…"
Spike's nervousness seemed to evaporate as a wave of skepticism washed over his face. He raised his head to look directly at her, one eyebrow arched, and released his tail to fold his arms across his chest.
Rarity flung her hooves up in defeat. "Ugh. I can't fool myself; it's only natural that I can't fool you, either." She scooted to the side and patted the space next to her invitingly. "What gave it away?"
Spike climbed up and sat down, curling his tail across his lap. "You mean besides the running mascara, the crying and the sniffling, and the fact that you said 'oh, it's not like you have anywhere to be right now' when you were talking to yourself just now?" The paraphrase was spoken with a poor (but amusing, she had to admit) imitation of Rarity's painstakingly cultivated Canterlot accent. "I'm pretty sure anypony in a ten mile radius from that restaurant could hear you shouting."
Ooh, I'm never going to be allowed in there again, am I?
"Yes, if you must know, my big date turned out to be a horrible waste of time." Rarity scoffed. "What a shock that must be."
She felt a scaly hand press tenderly against her hoof. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, don't be, Spike. I got my hopes up, and got hurt for it. My own fault, really." She hopped off the bench, smoothed out her dress, and cleared her throat. "Well, I appreciate the conversation, but I'm afraid I must be going. I still have plans this evening."
"Plans?" There was a note of panic in Spike's voice. "Like what? With who?"
"Why, with a fine young mare named Rarity!” Rarity made a grandiose, sweeping gesture in the air as tears beaded in her eyes again. “She and I are going to get together on the floor of my boutique, draw the curtains shut, open a bottle of well-aged Merlot that we keep for just such occasions as these, and drink it until we forget what it's like to have feelings. Ta!" Rarity turned, and resumed her journey home.
"Hey, wait." Rarity heard the rapid pitter-patter of tiny dragon feet as Spike ran in front of her to cut her off. He held his hands up in front of him, and she stopped. "I know things didn't go the way you wanted them to, but that doesn't mean you have to just give up and go home. The night's still young!"
"Don't remind me.” Rarity tried to move around him, but Spike jumped in front of her again.
"I tell you what," he said. "Tonight's the last night that the carnival's gonna be in town. How about you and I spend a little time over there? Play some games, win some prizes, go on some rides, watch the fireworks, eat fried ice cream…"
Rarity raised an eyebrow. "Did you say 'fried ice cream'?"
"Yeah!" Spike folded his arms. "Hey, it's a thing."
"No no, I believe you," Rarity assured him, "but I'm having trouble conceptualizing it." How one went about preparing such a thing boggled her usually un-boggleable mind.
"Well," Spike pressed, "I could stand here and explain it to you, or I could buy you some and you could see for yourself." He smiled. "What do you say?"
There was a certain level of frustration she was feeling toward the persistent little whelp… and a certain measure of gratitude toward him for showing such care and devotion. But on the other hoof, that wine sounded really appealing. "I appreciate the offer, Spike," said Rarity crossly, "and your concern is noted, but as I said before, I already have plans for the evening. Now, if you'll kindly excuse me."
She tried yet again to dodge around him, but he cut her off again; when she kept walking without stopping, he started backpedaling, keeping pace with her.
"Look…" Spike said, his sentences punctuated by intermittent panting. "I know you're feeling hurt, and I know you've been hurt like this a lot lately. But... but you don't need that guy, alright? If he… didn't respect you enough… to show up to a date he asked you out on, then… then, c'mon… you're better off without him. Nopony… deserves… to be treated like that, and… ah, Rarity, can we stop for a second? I'm getting kinda…"
Rarity came to a stop, as did Spike. He rested his hands on his knees and panted to catch his breath as Rarity waited.
“And?” she asked after his breath had finally stabilized.
Spike took one last deep breath. "You don't deserve to be treated like that, and you don’t deserve to spend tonight drunk and depressed by yourself. You deserve better than that, Rarity. A lot better." He looked up at her shyly, mouth hanging open a little as though he had more to say. But he must have thought better of it, because he closed it again and stood silently, waiting for her final answer.
Try as she might, she couldn't muster the necessary spite to be frustrated with him for his persistence. If anything, she found herself charmed by it. Still, feelings of neglect and abandonment writhed in her like graveworms. She wasn't sure she could muster the energy to be festive, and she wasn’t sure she’d be terribly good company. "Spike, it's sweet of you to offer, but I don't know…"
"I'll tell you what," he said with a quick glance at his wristwatch. "It’s 10:30 now. The fireworks start at 11:30. If you're not feeling it by then, we'll call it a night, and you can go home and drink whatever you want, for however long you want. One hour, that's all. I promise." He folded his hands together and gazed at her, with his eyes wide and his lower lip trembling.
The eyes. Funny how his puppy dog eyes had grown even more effective after he’d put in significant hours as an actual puppy. That little demon. The eyes, they get me every time, and he knows it. Not that she was honestly mad at him. Just talking to the persistent little puppy-eyed devil spawn was enough to push the thoughts and feelings of heartbreak away. He does have a way with cheering me up. And fried ice cream does sound intriguing…
"Very well," said Rarity with a defeated sigh.
A tiny squeal of joy escaped from Spike's throat.
"But I don't suppose you'd give me a moment to run home and change?" Rarity glanced down at her outfit and smiled sheepishly. "I fear I might be a bit overdressed for something like a carnival."
Spike waved his hand in the air dismissively– a flamboyant gesture which Rarity was almost certain he’d picked up from her. "Pshaw. You look great! If anything, they'll be underdressed!"
Rarity giggled – a short, but genuine, burst of mirth that grew louder when he awkwardly crooked his arm toward her in an overdone attempt at looking suave. But she looped her hoof through it regardless and resolved to leave her misgivings aside… if only for an hour.
Perhaps something will come of tonight after all. And if not… well, there’s always emergency Merlot.