Ditzy walks into "Ye Olde Muffen Shoppe" desiring a bit of lunch, she finds a bit more. A stallion has a boring job, a certain mare makes it more interesting.
Ditzy walks into "Ye Olde Muffen Shoppe" desiring a bit of lunch, she finds a bit more.
The Muffin stood two feet tall and one foot in diameter. It looked heavenly. Cooked to perfection, it was perfectly browned. Peeking through its crust was every color imaginable, plus a few more; every conceivable muffin topping, filling, or flavoring had been added to a level of precision that made sure that conflicting flavors didn’t mix. A mere glance could render a pony unable to speak due to the excessive amount of drool that pooled in his or her mouth.
It sat under lock and key beneath ballistic glass capable of withstanding the force of an angry dragon. The glass also doubled as an airtight container and had been magically enchanted with the ability to keep things fresh beyond normal timeframes.
The Muffin’s rather unusual size and delectable looks attracted much attention and many questions.
If a pony were to inquire as to what kind of muffin it was, the only reply would be “yes.” Many a pony were more than slightly confused by this response and asked, “I don’t think you heard me properly. What kind of muffin is it?”
The store clerk, a stallion by the name of Baked Bread, would respond tiredly, “The Muffin is all types of muffins at the same time.”
“How is that physically possible?” the generic customer would ask, usually scratching his or her head in confusion.
Baked Bread would simply reply with, “It just is.”
The confused customer would then walk out of the store, muttering to him—or her—self about the scientific properties of muffins.
But today was different.
“This place looks just as good as any for lunch,” murmured Ditzy, standing in front of a sturdy—yet clearly old—building. She looked at the small watch attached firmly to her foreleg. Closing her left eye and looking at the watch, she mumbled to herself, “About a half an hour till my lunch break is over.”
She pushed open the old wooden door with her hooves, the cracked, cloudy, and aging glass in the door providing no preview of what she would find inside.
Entering the small building, Ditzy’s nose was immediately assaulted with the holiest of scents: the smell of freshly baked muffin.
“Mmmmm . . .” she hummed, looking around the room. Peeling white paint, warped floorboards, and flickering candles filled the room that was scarcely more than a short hallway with a counter at one end, the door that she had just walked through at the other, and a table with two chairs in the middle.
The chairs were little more than blocks of wood, polished to a shine from years of constant use. They were circling what looked like a plank of wood sitting on a tree stump, also heavily worn.
Ditzy walked past the seating area and up to the solid-looking counter, once again made from wood. Though, it was clearly a much more finished piece, as opposed to worn into a state of smoothness. The store clerk, a dark brown earth pony stallion with a sandy-colored mane, was fast asleep on the counter and snoring loudly.
“Hello!” she said happily, putting her hooves on the counter.
“Hzzzzzzwhaa?!” snorted the stallion, jerking his head up and focusing his sleepy, light blue eyes on the grey mare.
“I said hello,” she replied, smiling.
The young stallion rubbed his face with a forehoof, muttering something about beauty sleep. “Welcome to Ye Olde Muffen Shoppe, how can I help you today?” he said in the monotonous tone of voice that befalls ponies who say the same words over and over and over and over and over again.
“I’d like a blueberry muffin, please!” she chirped.
Nodding, the stallion removed his hoof from his forehead and yawned. He reached down into the hollow counter and over to where he had put the fresh blueberry muffins that morning.
“What is that!” she suddenly screamed, causing the stallion to smash his head into the bottom of the counter with a resounding thud.
“What is what?” he groaned, peering over the top of the counter.
“That!” she screamed, pointing to The Muffin.
However, the clerk was more preoccupied with the customer than what she was pointing to. Finally awake enough to appreciate her beauty, appreciate her he did. Her coat was a beautiful grey color, the kind of color one would find streaming from the moon on a summer's night: a soft, somehow warm color that seemed to give off a little bit of light. She was wearing a well-worn saddlebag that had her cutie mark—a collection of small bubbles—emblazoned on the clasp, and the tips of her wings poked out from the edge nearest to her hips. Her mane was a gentle gold, like the color of sunshine in the early morning. And her eyes—they were the most unique thing about her: stunning, golden irises that sparkled with barely contained joy. As he continued admiring her, he noticed that her right eye was focused on what he knew to be the direction of The Muffin, but her left eye was pointing at the ceiling.
“That’s the most delicious-looking muffin ever! What kind is it?” she squealed, bringing her hooves up to her smiling mouth.
“Yes,” replied the clerk automatically, expecting the inevitable question. He kept his eyes on her lazily traveling left eye while her right didn’t shift its gaze from The Muffin. He was unable to close his mouth, so he left it open, such was his awe in her natural beauty.
He had to get to know her better. There was no alternative.
“Really? That’s awesome! How much?” she asked, turning to face him.
He quickly averted his gaze and closed his mouth. “Uhhhhhhhhhh . . . forty bits, I think. Let me check.” He walked over to the the case that held The Muffin, wondering to himself exactly what made her not question his answer. “Yup, forty,” he replied, reading the small, dusty price tag.
“It’s not polite to stare you know,” she stated, frowning.
“You, uhhhhh, saw that?” he asked sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head with a foreleg.
“What do you think?” she spat sarcastically.
“Hey, I’m sorry!” the clerk exclaimed.
“No you’re not. Don’t lie to me,” she muttered.
“Yes I, er, wait—I’m not lying,” he protested feebly.
“You think that just because my eyes are crooked, I’m retarded?” She lifted her eyes to meet his, and the stallion didn’t like what he saw there.
“Retarded? Where did that come from?” he asked.
“Don’t start with me; I know how this goes. First the staring, then the snickering behind my back, then the teasing, then the laughing. I’ve seen it before.”
“I wouldn’t do that!”
“Really? Then why were you staring?” she demanded, stomping her hoof on the floor.
“Because . . .” His eyes glanced around wildly, seeking an escape that would never come.
“Because why? Because you think I’m ugly?”
“No! . . . It’s because—” A single bead of sweat dripped down his forehead.
“Spit it out! Tell the re-tard what’s wrong with her!” she shouted, jumping on the counter.
“Nothing!” he returned, backing into the wall. “You’re not retarded! You’re—”
“Go on! I’ve heard them all! See if you can find a new one, I dare you!” she yelled.
“Pretty . . .” he mumbled.
“Oh, that’s a new one!” she spat. “I haven’t heard that one before! Congrat-u-la . . . Pretty?”
“I was staring because I think your eyes are beautiful, and I wanted to look at them! All right?” he shouted quickly, cowering under his forelegs.
“. . . Oh . . .” she said, digesting the information. “Do-do you really mean that?”
The clerk looked up to see that the mare’s cheeks were turning a bright red. “Yes,” he mumbled.
“Oh . . .” she said again, still blushing. She carefully stepped off the counter and down to a more respectable position on the floor.
“Yeah . . .” the clerk replied, standing up slowly.
The room was quiet for a few moments. A few long and exceedingly uncomfortable moments.
“I’m really sorry,” she mumbled, not quite meeting his eyes; through, whether it was because she was embarrassed about her red cheeks or her outburst, he couldn’t tell.
“I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have been staring.”
Again, silence reigned supreme.
“So, forty bits is the price of the muffin,” said the clerk suddenly.
“That much?” she asked hesitantly.
The clerk nodded. “My father put quite a bit of work into making it.”
The mare slowly turned around and looked in her saddlebag for a few moments, the sound of a few bits jangling around in a mostly empty bag filling the air. “I guess I’ll just take the blueberry muffin,” she sighed sadly, hanging her head slightly.
The clerk’s gaze alternated between the despondent-looking mare and The Muffin. He looked between the perfect mare and The Muffin.
“Do you want The Muffin?” the clerk asked, motioning towards the case.
“I can’t really afford it,” she whispered, each word getting quieter and quieter.
“I could put it on a tab, and tomorrow you can give me the rest of the bits,” he offered.
“You don’t quite get it . . . I can’t . . .” she murmured. “Just give me the blueberry please.”
The clerk nodded, understanding dawning. “Oh . . .” He had a rather strained look on his face. On one hoof, he could just give her the blueberry muffin like she had asked, and everything would go back to normal: she would leave and never return.
But on the other . . . he could give her The Muffin, his father’s pride and joy. It took twenty-four hours of uninterrupted baking to make it, and the forty bits would be enough to refinish the paint, something he had been meaning to do for a while. He was by no means pressured to make ends meet, but forty bits was still forty bits.
But, the second option had a much larger advantage over the first; she might come back.
The clerk nodded once, his decision made. He walked over to the case and entered the proper code into the combination lock. It sprung open with a click and fell onto the floor. He opened the case slowly.
A scent flooded the room, a scent like no other. Imagine the best smell there is, multiply it by five, add adorable kittens, and then think of every other smell in the world as the smell of decaying fish. Only then can one truly begin to understand what they smelled when the clerk opened the airtight container.
She immediately perked up, nose twitching uncontrollably. “Didn’t you hear me? I told you I couldn’t—that I wanted the blueberry muffin,” she said, watching him intently.
He grunted and groaned as he lifted the unreasonably sized confectionery delight in the air. It made a loud thump as he roughly set it down on a serving platter usually reserved for twenty regular-sized muffins.
Balancing the heavy platter on his back, he carefully walked around the counter. Shuffling, he slid the platter from his back to the table and placed The Muffin in front of one of the chairs. “It’s on the house,” he said, beckoning her over.
“But I couldn’t possibl—”
“Please?”
“But I don’t deserve this after blowing up in your face like that for no reason.”
“Everypony makes mistakes sometimes. Mine was not coming clean the first time you asked. Please, sit. I insist.”
She blushed lightly, a pink color gracing her cheeks. “I-I . . . Ok-ay, but only since you insist,” she stuttered. She walked over and gingerly sat down on the seat, her mouth watering from the smell of The Muffin.
She carefully leaned in and took a bite. As she chewed, her eyes closed, her wings quivered, and long, blissful moans came forth repeatedly.
“This is the best thing ever!” she squealed, leaning in for another bite.
“I’m glad you like it,” said the clerk, smiling slightly as he watched her begin to rapidly devour The Muffin. Every bite appeared to be pure bliss, and she looked as though she was floating of a cloud of euphoria as she chewed each flawless crumb.
After eating less than a sixth of the marvelous sustenance, she couldn’t eat any more. “I’m done,” she groaned, her mouth full of muffin. She swallowed then asked, “What am I going to do with the rest of this? There’s no way I can take this with me.”
“Well, I’ve got an idea,” said the clerk, having already planned for this particular question.
“What’s your idea?” she asked, looking at him with her right eye while her left continued to look at The Muffin.
“How about I keep The Muffin in its magical case to make sure it stays fresh, and then the next time when you come by, you can have a bit more of it.”
“Really? You’d do that for me?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow and smiling slightly.
“Sure, not a problem,” he shrugged.
“Thank you so much!” she exclaimed, throwing her forelegs around him.
“It’s nothing,” he replied, awkwardly hugging her back with one of his forelegs.
“But it means a lot to me,” she said. She leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Like a gentle feather, she was there and gone, barely leaving a trace. If the stallion hadn’t seen it happen, he would never have known. “See you tomorrow . . .” she whispered, blushing heavily. She sprinted out the door, leaving a rather satisfied-looking stallion behind her.
Once the door slammed shut behind her, she let out a massive squee. “Woo-hoo!” she yelled, jumping up and down joyfully as she hastily trotted—or more accurately, bounced—back to work.
“Sounds good,” said the clerk with a goofy smile on his face. This was the first time he had spoken, or moved at all, since she left—two hours ago. “You know, I don’t even know what her name is . . .” he muttered.
“Tomorrow—wait?—tomorrow!” he yelled, grabbing a broom and sweeping the already swept floor. “Musht clean,” he muttered around the broom handle.
Baked Bread was sitting behind the wooden counter and carefully wiping a plate with a small, clean rag. Whistling distractedly, he held it up to the dim candle on the desk. Setting the clean plate behind him with the others, he put his forelegs on the countertop and placed the bottoms of his hooves under his chin.
He looked at the ornate gold-plated windup clock that was sitting by the edge of the counter and stared at it as the seconds ticked by.
“Tick,” said the clock.
Opening his mouth awkwardly because of the hooves under his chin, he yawned slowly.
“Tick,” said the clock.
He blinked sleepily, his eyelids slightly out of sync.
“Tick,” said the clock.
His muzzle slowly pushed his forelegs apart, and his head slipped closer to the counter.
“Tock,” said the clock.
“Huh?” grunted the stallion, jerking his head up. Lethargically reaching over, he grasped the clock in one hoof and flipped it around.
“Tock,” said the clock.
He found the small knob on the back and gave it a few turns, the mechanism clicking tiredly.
“Tick,” said the clock once again.
The stallion nodded, satisfied. Turning it over once again, he noticed that it was almost closing time. He stood up and stretched each of his legs legs in turn, working out all of the stiffness.
Suddenly a loud banging sound filled the small room. Baked Bread quickly looked up to see the door closing with another loud bang. The stunning grey mane with the golden mane had her back against the door and was panting heavily.
“. . . Hi,” said the stallion, finding his voice.
The mare quickly looked up and focused her right eye on him, while her left appeared to be staring at the ground. “Oh, I’m, uhhhh, sorry. I thought that . . . This isn’t . . . I’ll just be, ummm, going now,” she stammered quickly, standing up. A light blush formed on her cheeks as she looked over her shoulder towards the door.
“It’s fine, you can stay. I haven’t closed up yet,” he said, stepping around the counter.
“But . . .” began the mare, brushing her slightly windblown mane out of her golden eyes, somehow managing to look attractive, shy, approachable, and nervous all at the same time.
“What took you so long to come back?” he asked, concern in his voice. “It’s been over a week; I was starting to think that you weren't coming back.”
“I just . . . I’m sorry . . . I just didn’t want to mess it up . . .” she mumbled, lowering her head and folding her ears back.
“Mess what up?” he asked.
“You, this, everything, like I always do,” she mumbled.
As he got closer, he saw that there were tear stains on her cheeks, matting her soft coat. “Are you okay?” he asked softly, walking to within a few feet of her.
She wiped at her muzzle with a foreleg before responding. “Yes.” She didn’t look up.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, stepping closer and tentatively wrapping his foreleg around the mare’s shoulders. “Do you mind telling me what happened?” he asked.
“No, I mean yes, I mean . . .” She wiped her eyes with a foreleg to prevent more tears from escaping. “It’s nothing . . .”
“It’s obviously not nothing,” he stated. “I’ll sit with you and listen if you feel like sharing. Sometimes it can help to just tell somepony and get it off of your chest.”
Biting her lip and humming quietly, she paused for a few moments. “Promise you won’t laugh at me?” she asked, peering up at the stallion through her golden mane.
“Promise,” he said.
“Well . . .” she started hesitantly. “Pretty much all of my co-workers were making fun of me because I messed up my deliveries,” she said finally, letting it all out in a rush.
“Deliveries?” he asked.
“I’m a mailpony,” she answered.
“Ahhh.” He nodded. “So what did you mess up?”
“It’s too embarrassing,” she mumbled.
“I already said I wouldn’t laugh, what more do you want me to say?” he asked.
“You better not,” she said, glaring at him.
“We already went over this, twice; I promised I wouldn’t laugh. But if it makes you feel better I can say this: I swear it on the countless hours I have spent sitting behind my counter, I will not laugh,” he stated with authority.
She let out a long sigh. “All right, I crashed into a tree and dropped my mailbag into a lake.” Immediately after saying this, she looked down and away from him.
“Really?” he asked. “They made fun of you for that?”
She slowly nodded and flattened her ears against her head. “The same lake. Twice in one day.”
“That’s nothing. A long time ago, I blew up three houses trying to make a new flavor of bread.”
She quickly looked up at him. “What?”
He nodded sagely. “I still don’t know what I put in that batter, but I haven’t done it since.”
“Yeah . . . but you only made a mistake once,” she mumbled, hanging her head low again.
“Once? Try hundreds of times,” he chuckled. “Everypony makes mistakes. Like . . . your co-workers, for instance. They shouldn’t make fun of you for an honest fumble; that's a mistake.”
“But nopony makes as many mistakes as I do,” she sighed.
He gently stroked her mane with his foreleg. “And you believe that? Are they really that bad?” he asked. “What happened to that happy mare who came in just last week? It looked like it would be fun to get to know her.” He pointedly didn’t mention the fact that she yelled at him. It was no use making her feel even worse.
She didn’t respond for a few minutes. “I’m feeling better now,” she said, wiping a few tears from her eyes. “And I should probably be going before it gets too dark.”
“If you’re feeling better, then why are you still crying?” he asked gently, rubbing his foreleg along her back.
She didn’t say anything for a few moments, but before long, the stallion felt her shoulders begin to shake. “Be-cause they’re right . . . I’m just dumb and-and clumsy!” she sobbed suddenly, leaning into the stallion. “I d-drop things and-nd crash all the time.”
“I can’t possibly believe that; you seemed like a fine, intelligent mare when I talked to you.”
“That-s be-cause you don’t know me . . .” she cried, her body shaking.
“Is that why you didn’t come back? Because you didn’t want to ‘mess up’ my opinion of you?” he asked, making the connections.
The mare pressed her face into the stallion’s chest and nodded slowly.
The stallion brushed her mane out of her eyes then lifted her chin until her good eye met his own. “I think you are a beautiful mare, nothing you could do will change that,” he said.
She blushed slightly and asked shakily, “W-why are y-you being so n-nice to me-e? I’m just a clumsy mare that can’t do anything right.” She smiled weakly. “See? Look at me, crying in f-front of a stallion I don’t ev-en know.” As she began to regulate her breathing, she gently pushed the foreleg away from her face and wiped her muzzle, sniffing slightly.
“Better?” asked the stallion.
She took a deep breath then let it all out slowly. “A little,” she murmured. “See? I told you I mess everything up . . . Now you think I’m pathetic and dum—”
“Don’t call yourself that,” he interrupted forcefully. “You’re not dumb,” he stated, tapping her chest with a foreleg. “You are a normal mare, and don’t let anypony tell you otherwise.”
“Do normal mares destroy the town hall when they don’t watch where they are going?” she asked sadly, making a small circle on a floor with her hoof.
“That was you?” he asked.
She nodded slowly.
“Hmm. Impressive.”
“I . . . what?”
“A single mare who can destroy the entire town hall just by crashing? I think she would have to be pretty strong—both mentally and physically.”
She paused for a moment for a long moment before responding. “I should really be going now,” she mumbled, “It’s starting to get late.”
“Right, do you want a bit of The Muffin to eat on the way to your house?” he asked.
“I would like that,” she said, wiping her face again.
“Wait just a sec, and I’ll be right back with a piece,” he said, unwrapping his foreleg and trotting back over to the counter.
He took the covering off of the case that masked that it had already been eaten; he couldn’t put chewed food on display. He entered the combination and slid the padlock off, catching it in his hoof this time.
He walked behind the counter and pulled out a short, heavily serrated bread knife. Working carefully, he opened the clear lid and began slicing into The Muffin.
A thousand lesser beings made of muffin flesh from an alternate dimension cried out in agony as their god among gods was slowly wounded, bleeding crumbs and a holy smell that could promote peace across the land as the evil knife tore a chunk out of The Muffin’s very being.
After cutting roughly a regular muffin sized piece of The Muffin, the stallion wrapped it in a small sheet of soft, thin cloth, specifically designed for this purpose. Picking up the chunk in his hoof, he limped back over to the mare, his hooves making soft thumping on the wooden floor.
The mare was standing on her hooves and shifting impatiently. She smiled a bit as she saw him carrying the treat over. When he got closer, he held out his foreleg and offered the bread to her.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the piece of The Muffin out of his hoof, “for everything.” She stepped forward and threw her forelegs around him. “You were right, it was really nice just talking to somepony.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied, smiling and returning the warm hug.
“I really appreciate that you kept your promise and didn’t laugh at me,” she whispered into his ear. “Some ponies start laughing the minute they see me.” He noted that there was a hint of bitterness in her voice.
“They don’t know who they’re missing out on,” he replied.
She disengaged from the hug and flashed him a quick smile. “I really do need to go now,” she said, wiping her muzzle one last time
“Of course,” he said, opening the door for her. “But please come back sooner next time.”
“But I thought that . . .” she trailed off, staring at him strangely.
“Thought what?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“Well”—the mare started blushing and kicked at the ground awkwardly with a foreleg—“I just made a complete fool of myself by crying in front of you, not to mention last week when I yelled at you, and then I went and told you that I’m the clumsiest mare in all of Ponyville. I kinda thought that you wouldn’t want to see me again . . .” she mumbled.
“I see,” said the stallion. “Those do sound like pretty good reasons.”
The mare’s ears lowered and she began walking out the doorway.
“But,” said the stallion, causing the mare to stop halfway out of the building. “But if you don’t come back, then who’s going to eat the rest of The Muffin?” he asked. “It is yours, you know.”
The mare glanced over her shoulder and looked at the stallion. He smiled and asked. “Will you stop by tomorrow, then?”
A wink and a wave of her wing was his only response as the mare trotted off into the night.
Silence, except for the ticking of the clock, of course.
Baked Bread groaned and smacked his head onto the counter. He looked at the gold clock. “I thought for sure that a wink meant ‘yes,’” he sighed, running yesterday’s conversation through his head again. “But I guess not...”
The clock agreed, reading several hours after lunchtime.
“Closing time again, I guess she’s a no show,” said Baked despondently, cleaning the last of the plates. He picked up the closed sign and walked over to the store’s entrance. Opening the door, he prepared to hang the sign on the handle.
However, a golden mane and a grey coat walking towards him from out of the evening town made him immediately reconsider his course of action; he hid the sign behind his back and held the door open for the mare.
“Oh, thank you,” gasped the mare as she walked past him, sounding slightly out of breath. “Sorry I’m late.”
“It’s fine,” assured the stallion, desperately trying to keep the closed sign behind his back as he firmly shut the door behind the mare.
“Really? I wasn’t sure when you closed, but I came as fast as I could,” she said, turning to him.
The stallion felt his knees weaken as he was beset with her simple beauty from such a short range. It seemed that all she had done was comb her mane and apply a light coating of a gentle pink lipstick, but the difference it made was astonishing. Her mane appeared as soft as silk, and her lips looked so lush and kissable that it was all he could do to not close the distance between them. And her voice was . . . was . . . her voice was speaking to him!
“. . . llo? Hello? Are you all right?” she asked, peering closer, a small frown on her face.
“Fine!” he shouted, causing the mare to jump back. He swallowed the drool that had been pooling in his mouth and reorganized his thoughts before responding, “I mean, I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
“Do I have something in my teeth?” she asked. She carefully swiped her tongue around inside her mouth and furrowed her brow.
“No, you’re fine too. Better than fine actually.” She paused and looked up at him, one eyebrow cocked. “I think you look lovely tonight,” he said.
“Really?” she asked.
The stallion nodded.
“Thank you,” she said, flashing him a slight smile and blushing lightly.
A low, rumbling growl came from the mare’s stomach and filled the room, causing her blush to intensify.
“. . . Would you like me to get you something?” he asked after the noise had died down.
She quickly nodded. “I didn’t really have time to eat lunch today; I’m still making up for losing those deliveries, but the good news is I’m almost done.”
“That’s good to hear.” The stallion smiled “The last part, at least,” he quickly amended. “Why don’t you have a seat?” He motioned over to the sole table.
“Thank you,” said the mare, desperately willing her blush to go away. She turned around and trotted to the table.
While her back was turned, the stallion quickly opened the door, glanced around conspiratorially, placed the closed sign on the handle, and shut the door. He breathed a sigh of relief and trotted back to the counter as the mare sat down, seeming to not have heard anything.
“What will it be tonight?” asked the stallion upon reaching the counter. “The Muffin, The Muffin, The Muffin, or perhaps, The Muffin?”
“I think I’ll have The Muffin,” giggled the mare, “with a side of The Muffin.”
“Coming right up,” he said, already opening the lock.
He sliced a fairly large piece of The Muffin with the knife and placed it on a plate, noting that the hazardously sized confection was already about one-third of the way gone. Dad’s not going to be happy, he thought, relocking the case and carrying the plate over to the mare after once again hiding The Muffin from sight. He set the plate in front of her and watched as she leaned in to smell the delicious scent emanating from The Muffin; her eyes closed and her lips curled into a smile as she breathed it in.
She ate at a moderate pace, doing her best to conserve the flavor, but too hungry to actually eat slowly. She moaned quietly and somewhat suggestively as she ate, putting certain thoughts in the stallion’s head that he did his best to dispel. Her eyes were still closed, and she gently fluttered her wings with each bite.
After she finished eating, each of her taste buds performed ritualistic suicide by riding the last crumbs of The Muffin down her throat. They were determined to taste as much of The Muffin as they could, and they would not be denied. Fortunately for the mare, her uvula put a stop to their childish behaviour and sent them back to where they belonged, firmly attached to her tongue.
Swallowing the last bite, she opened her eyes to find the stallion blushing lightly, pointedly looking anywhere but at her, and humming to himself. “Thank you,” she giggled, wondering exactly what he was up to.
“Hmm? Oh, you’re welcome,” he replied with a smile, finally looking back at her.
A few moments of awkward silence filled the room as each of the ponies wanted to say something but were unable to make it sound acceptable to the other in their heads.
“I should—” she started.
“Do you want—” he interrupted.
“Sorry,” they said in unison.
“You go first,” said the stallion as the mare giggled.
“I was just going to say that I should probably get going,” said the mare. “Now what were you going to say?” she asked.
“Nothing important,” he said.
“It must have been important if you were going to say it,” she insisted.
“No. It’s silly. Forget I said anything,” he protested.
“Tell me,” she stated, a bit of hardness in her voice.
“It’s fine,” he said, taking a step backward. “You’re right, you should go.”
She walked up to him and gave him a piercing stare. Then, she sat down directly in front of him. “Pweeeeesseee,” she insisted, fluttering her eyelashes and looking up at him through her mane. She pouted slightly and puckered her lips.
The stallion would have given her anything. Money, food, his house, his life—all were meaningless when faced with that look. So simply opening his mouth was accomplished before he had time to think. “I was going to ask you if you wanted to dance, but then I didn’t because it’s silly,” he let out in a rush.
“Dance?” she echoed.
The stallion nodded slowly, still partly transfixed.
“I . . . would love to,” she said slowly, beginning to blush once again. “But . . . I don’t really know how.” She looked down and scuffed the floorboards with her forehoof.
“Want me to teach you?” he asked, shaking his head slightly.
She didn’t say anything, but she nodded once, giving him his answer.
The stallion trotted his way over to the table and pushed it against the wall while grunting, and the chairs soon followed.
He walked into the back room and returned with a decent-sized record player. He set it on the counter and placed a large black disk on the central spike. He slid the square base forward slightly then gave the handle a few dozen cranks. Carefully and slowly, he lowered the needle until it touched the record. He angled the horn towards the mare then flipped the switch, starting machine. The record spun slowly, and the music began to play as the stallion reached the mare.
“Ready?” he asked as the soft, slow violin music filled the room.
She stood up and faced him with a bit of almost-unnoticeable wetness forming in her eyes. “Uh-huh,” she said, smiling brightly.
“All right, stand just like that,” he said, stepping closer. “And then I stand like this, right in front of you.”
“Okay . . .”
“Then you tilt your head to your left and put it on my shoulder while I do the same,” he said.
“Okay,” she said, following his lead.
“Now listen to the music for a moment.”
She angled her ears toward the record player and listened intently.
“Do you hear the beat?” he asked.
“Yeah, it goes one two three four, one two three four.”
The stallion nodded against her shoulder. “Good. Now the idea is to keep moving together; you know what I mean? So if I step right, you step left, and vica versa. I’m going to take one step right with each of my legs, one step forward with each of my legs, then one step left, and finally, one step back.”
“So then I go . . . left, back, right, forward?” she asked.
“That’s exactly right. All you have to do is follow my lead. We’ll start off slow until you get the hang of it, all right?”
The mare nodded against his shoulder.
“Ready . . . and . . . go.”
She immediately stepped forward into him and hit his ankle with with hoof.
“Ow.” He winced.
“Sorry.”
“That’s all right. Let’s try again. Ready? And . . . go.”
She immediately ran into him and hit his ankle with with hoof.
He bit back a yelp; she had hit him in exactly the same spot.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said, delicately rubbing his ankle. “I told you I’m clumsy.”
“It’s fine. One more try,” he said, gritting his teeth slightly as she continually hit his ankle, albeit gently. “Just do the same thing again and I’ll follow. Ready? And . . . go.” This time, he stepped backward. Nodding, she again stepped forward, following the path that he had originally set for himself. All he had to do was compensate by following the opposite path and starting halfway through the pattern.
“I’m doing it!” she cried happily.
“Congratulations,” he said as they completed rotation. “You can dance.”
They danced together for several more circuits, slowly gaining speed and confidence until they were keeping pace with the quiet music.
Slowly, tentatively, hesitantly, almost reluctantly, she picked up her right foreleg and wrapped it around his neck. He could feel her asking if it was okay through her warm coat. He responded by taking his own right foreleg and wrapping around her neck. Upon feeling his leg, she sighed and nuzzled her face into him, squeezing gently, but firmly, with her leg. The stallion responded in kind, eliciting another soft sigh.
Round and around they went. One two three four.
The violins made the perfect beat. One two three four.
There was nothing. One two three four.
Time had no meaning. One two three four.
Just a stallion. One two three four.
And a mare. One two three four.
Their soft breath in each other’s ears. One two three four.
The warmth of their coats again each other. One two three four.
The hard wood.
They both ran into the counter and tripped, the stallion going one way, the mare the other. The stallion smacked his head off the ground as he landed and groaned. A metal thud sounded as the clock fell onto the floor by the mare.
The stallion opened his eyes to see the mare already getting to her hooves. She picked up the clock and shrieked, “It’s midnight! I have work tomorrow! No, today!”
She tossed the clock back on the counter and sprinted for the door. She flung the door open and roughly shut it behind her, rattling the old panes.
The stallion groaned again and gently laid his throbbing head back against the floor.
The door opened again and the mare stuck her head in the doorway. “I had a great time,” she said softly, gently biting her lip. “I promise I’ll come by tomorrow. Wait for me, please?”
The stallion nodded and waved, but before he could say anything, she blew him a kiss and left. He closed his eyes and smiled, falling asleep immediately. He dreamt of the mare as he slept, and only the best of dreams were his on that night.
The record player spun quietly and slowed to a stop, the mechanism finally running out of power, the magical loop no longer able to keep the music going.
Baked Bread groaned and open his eyes; his father’s worn face glared down at him with a slight frown.
Known simply as The Bakenator, his father was built like a wagon: he was taller than anypony in town, including Big Mac, and able to beat dough into submission just by looking at it. Back in his day, mares literally swarmed around him and begged to squeeze his rock hard muscles. He had been able to keep most of his impressive physique through the years and still cast a formidable shadow wherever he walked. Almost an exact replica of his son looks-wise, he had a dark brown coat, a sandy colored mane with streaks of grey through it, a slightly wrinkled face, and tired blue eyes; though the shades of the various features weren’t the absolute same, one could easily tell they were related.
“What are you doing in my house?” he asked, massaging his forehead with a hoof
”Your house?” his father laughed, “Don’t you remember where you are?”
Looking around, he saw the familiar insides of the muffin store. “Right.”
“So anyways, I was just stopping by to see how you were doing, but I found you asleep on the job!” He shook his head. “Care to explain?”
Baked Bread willed his brain into some quick thinking. “I was working,” he said.
“On . . . ?” his father prompted.
“The . . . the . . . the floor!” said Baked Bread, noticing that the table and chairs were still propped up against the wall.
“The floor.” His father’s frown deepened. “What about the floor. It looks the same to me.”
“I . . . well . . .” The unfortunate stallion crumbled under his father’s piercing gaze. “I didn’t really work on the floor,” he sighed.
“That’s what I thought; don’t ever try to lie to me,” rumbled the much larger stallion. “So what actually happened? And why is your record player sitting on the counter?”
“I brought it in so I could ask this mare to dance with me,” sighed Baked Bread, deciding that lying wasn’t worth it.
“Really? Mister ‘I’m waiting to find the perfect mare’ decided to get a fillyfriend?” He chuckled. “Did you get laid yet?”
“Dad!”
“Did you?” he chuckled, his eyes twinkling.
“No!” protested Baked Bread, climbing to his hooves.
“Good.” The Bakenator’s eyes hardened and his voice lost its jovial tone. “I don’t care who she is. Treat her right or I will break you. No son of mine will be anything but a perfect gentlestallion to any mare.” He leaned in intimidatingly and roughly poked Baked Bread in the chest with his hoof. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, gulping nervously. This was a side of his father that he hadn’t seen before.
His father’s eyes bored into his. “I need to hear you say it.”
Baked Bread nodded and thought quickly. “I . . . I will do my best to always treat her with respect, honor, courtesy, and adoration,” he said with determination.
“And . . .” said his father.
“Uhhhhh . . .” And what? he thought.
“And no . . .” urged The Bakenator.
“. . . Really, Dad?”
“Say it!” he growled.
“And no sex before marriage,” he recited reluctantly.
His father smacked him not too gently on the side of the head, causing him to stumble. “Like you mean it!”
“No sex before marriage!” he shouted, snapping to attention. “Sir!”
The Bakenator placed his massive forelegs on either side of his son’s face and stared into his eyes. He slowly nodded and began to smile. “Do me proud, son.”
“Yes, Dad,” he said, not quite expecting to have had his morning go this way.
“So who’s the lucky mare?” The Bakenator pulled his hooves away from his son’s face and backed up to a more comfortable distance.
“I don’t know.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t actually know her name yet. She’s only been here three times, and it never seems to come up,” he said, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly.
“Hm,” his father grunted.
“Yup.”
“So anyways, how’s things with the shop? I know I’m retired, but you can tell me how everything’s going, right?” said The Bakenator, instantly changing the subject. He was good at that; when The Bakenator changed the subject, nopony argued.
“Good.” Please don’t look at The Muffin.Please don’t look at The Muffin.Please don’t look at The Muffin.Please don’t look at The Muffin.Please don’t look at The Muffin.Please don’t look at The Muffin.
The Bakenator looked at The Muffin. He lifted up the cover with his foreleg. “Hey! Somepony finally bought this thing! Or at least part of it. What are you going to do with the extra bits?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “It looks like you got about . . . two hundred or so.”
“About that . . .”
“What about it? I know that forty bits per serving is a bit much, but I put a lot of work and some pretty expensive materials into it.” He lovingly stroked the clear case as he spoke.
“You see—”
“How did you measure the servings? It’s forty bits for a four inch cube, so a ruler mayb—”
“I gave it away!” he shouted, interrupting his father.
“What?” The Bakenator’s head mechanically swiveled around to point at his son.
“I didn’t charge forty bits per serving. I didn’t charge anything at all. I gave it away for free.”
“To whom,” his father stated, walking closer to him.
“The same mare that I danced with last night,” Baked Bread said, holding his ground.
“The same mare that is currently nameless,” his father deadpanned.
Baked Bread nodded.
“So let me get this straight. You don’t know her name, you have given her approximately two hundred bits worth of food, and you danced with her?” his father asked.
“Well, yes,” he replied.
“Do you know anything about her?” his father asked.
A lost expression graced his face as he thought about the mare. “Well, she’s cute . . . a bit silly . . . endearingly clumsy . . . shy . . . needy, but in a good way . . . soft when I hold her . . . feisty when I don’t . . . she just perfect and amazing and—” Baked broke off as he noticed his father no longer standing in front of him.
“You’re too far gone for reason. I know because I was the same way with your mother,” said his father, reaching the door. “Just keep what I said in mind, and do your best.”
“So . . . you’re not mad?” Baked asked.
“Why would I be mad?” The Bakenator replied, putting his hoof on the door handle.
“You know, because of The Muffin,” said the stallion, gesturing to the case.
“Son, I ran through a brick wall for your mother, nearly died while jumping out of a three story window, and broke my leg doing . . . well, I won’t give you any ideas. All of that because I was completely infatuated with her. And you know what?” He paused.
Baked thought that it was a rhetorical question. The was a short pause before he replied, “What?”
“None of that impressed her in the slightest.”
“Soooo . . . you’re telling me this why?” asked Baked Bread. “I mean it’s interesting and all but—”
“I’m just saying you’re on the right track. Gifts and dancing will get you a better mare ten times faster than flexing your muscles. All muscles get you is one night stands; romantic is the way to go to get a life partner. Fortunately, I figured that out before your mother married some other guy,” said The Bakenator, yanking the door open.
“Eeeep!” squeaked the grey mare with the golden mane, falling face first onto the floor at The Bakenator’s hooves.
“Hello, little lady,” rumbled the massive stallion, offering her his hoof.
“Oh, sorry, did I interrupt something?” she asked tentatively, taking his hoof and regaining her footing.
“Not at all, I was just leaving,” said The Bakenator. “Remember what I said,” he stated, staring at his son with a blazing intensity.
Baked Bread nodded as his father walked out of the building and closed the door behind him.
“. . . Who was that?” asked the mare in amazement, “He’s huge.”
“That’s my father,” said the stallion, finally breathing easily for the first time since he had woken up.
“Wow,” gasped the mare.
“Yeah, wait a second. . . .” The stallion looked at the light streaming in through the old windows of the shop. “What time is it?”
“Nine, I think?” she replied, scratching her ear and yawning cutely.
“How are you off of work already? Yesterday you didn’t even have time for lunch!” he exclaimed.
“Oh.” She giggled a bit before responding. “I forgot that today’s Sunday.”
“The post doesn’t deliver on Sunday,” he stated.
“Nope!” she replied happily.
“That’s nice,” he said, returning her smile. “So what are your plans for today?”
“It all depends on the answer to a question,” she said, walking closer to him.
“And what question would that be?” he asked as she closed the distance.
“Did you mean what you said?” she asked, beginning to blush.
“When?” he said, immediately trying to remember any lies he might have told.
“Just now. You told your dad that I was amazing. Did you mean it?” she asked, staring intently at him.
“. . . You were eavesdropping?” he asked, also beginning to blush. “How much did you hear?”
“My question first,” she said, closing the distance between their faces until mere inches separated them.
“Yes, I think you’re amazing,” said the stallion, completely incapable of lying to her, “beautiful, funny, cute, and adorable, and I want to get to know you better.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more of you either,” she giggled. “I’ve enjoyed spending time with you so far.”
The mare smiled up at the stallion; the stallion smiled down at the mare.
As if receiving an unspoken signal, both the stallion and the mare tilted their heads to the right and slowly, hesitantly leaned in. Their lips connected in pure bliss and their eyes closed. Being their first real kiss with any pony, each pony was completely inexperienced. But the tender passion that they expressed for each other through that simple, age-old action could have melted the coldest of ice.
They wrapped their forelegs around each other, and the mare softly sighed. She relaxed and let herself melt into the embrace of the stallion, her stallion. She let him completely support her weight, and it was okay. She somehow knew everything would be okay. Everything that had seemed important no longer mattered. She was with her stallion. She could feel it. And it felt right. The way her body fit perfectly with his, his gentle strength, and his lips pressing against her own felt like nothing she would ever be able to describe.
The stallion held her aloft with a firm—but tender—embrace as he kissed her. She was so soft, yet so fragile. Her felt as though if he pushed her away, she would shatter into a million pieces. So he held on, reveling in the feeling of her warmth in his forelegs. He slowly caressed her, eliciting small squeaks and quiet giggles, muffled by their kiss. This was his mare. He would do anything for her.
They slowly parted, their breathing slightly heavier than when they had started.
They open their eyes slowly and saw each other in a new light.
“I’m Baked Bread,” he said, his chest rumbling against her’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Hi, Baked Bread,” she whispered, her breath grazing his muzzle. “I’m Ditzy Doo.”
“So, Ditzy, does that answer your question?” Baked asked cheekily.
“Yes it does, Baked,” she answered.
“What are your plans for the day then?” he asked, brushing her mane out of her eyes.
“Could I maybe, spend the day with you?” she asked with a hopeful smile.
“Could you? I can’t think of anything I would rather do,” he answered truthfully.
Ditzy smiled as Baked led her out of the store. He locked the door behind him and walked next to her, their coats gently brushing with each step.
“So where would my fillyfriend like to go on this fine day?” Baked asked, blinking in sunlight.
“Let’s just walk for a bit,” sighed Ditzy, resting her head on her coltfriend’s shoulder and draping her wing over him.
