A day like any other
He woke up at five-thirty like he did everyday.
The birds were just beginning to rehearse outside and the very first drops of sunlight were seeping in from beneath the shutters. It all heralded a nice day.
Davenport didn’t need to tell himself to get up. Muscle memory took over once he’d woken up enough to feel his hooves. Silently, with the precision and satisfying round motions of a well-oiled machine, he stirred. There was nary a yawn as he extracted himself from the covers, barely a rustle of fabric as he tidied the bed back up. In a few seconds of practiced motions, it was as though he’d never slept there -- a pristine bed, a crease-free bed sheet.
Hooves clopped down lightly on the wooden floor as he made his way towards the kitchen to make his usual breakfast -- a cup of coffee, a bowl of porridge, two slices of crispy toast with a little jam and a little butter. It was all precisely arranged, because that was the way he liked it to be. A well-dressed breakfast was the key to a good day, his mother used to say, and he was inclined to agree. The only other important element of a good breakfast was to consume it promptly, and so he did.
The first trip to the washing room was uneventful -- a quick, straight-to-business shower and nothing more. Enough to get the mane clean and let it dry while he ordered the dirty laundry and replaced the used towel with another.
Fifteen minutes later, he was facing the dresser. Once more, the machinery activated: tendons pulled, muscles tensed and flexed, joints turned to the desired angle, opening up the second drawer on the left, the big one that creaked just so with the big brass handle, the one that smelled like fresh linen and moth deterrent. There was a faint, faded flower pattern decorating the insides of it -- once long ago it had been vibrant colors, but that time had long passed. The eyes barely noticed that detail, however, because the hooves had their next target in sight. The machine whirred to life again, extracting with the gentlest motion the desired object -- the white button shirt.
How delightful it was! How the hems, tailored to a perfect crease, complemented the body! How the whiteness of the fabric, washed and handled with proper care, reflected the perfectionism of the wearer!
A brief exhale and then it was sliding on. One hoof then the next, and then precise hooves were doing the buttons, sweeping across the chest, adjusting the collar to a sharp ninety-degree angle. Tight, clean, but with a little bit of give, just like he liked it.
Next was the second item of the drawer, the blue velvet symbol of his world, of his trade. A jacket made to fit, ordered from the boutique of Rarity herself. The eyes stopped there, beheld for a second the sacred item. Observed the fine grain and the softness of the texture. Then it was its turn to be worn, and it was worn promptly.
To the bathroom once more, where the comb awaited -- and the mirror.
There he appeared. There was Davenport. Light dusty brown coat, darker brown mane and tail, piercing green eyes, jacket and all. Without the jacket he couldn’t be Davenport. He didn’t bother to look into the mirror until he was wearing it.
Comb in hoof, gazing right into the image of the neatly-dressed earth pony he knew so well, Davenport battled his mane into a perfect haircut once more, then took the time to readjust his collar until it was perfectly even. There. He smiled proudly at his reflection, at this image of perfect symmetry and cleanliness. Perfect.
It was nearing six. Time to get to the store. When Davenport stepped out, the sun was starting to peek out more seriously. It wasn’t too cold, and it wasn't too warm either. It was just neat, like everything. Neat. The key turned in the lock with a dull click, was promptly dumped in the proper designated pocket, and then he was on his way.
Just like every morning in the past two decades.
“If you take this sofa, I’ll include a package of my finest quills. They’re from the local farmstead, prices negotiated directly with the geese union. We even have a plan for inkwell refillings from Canterlot’s very own Inks and Scrolls, official furniture store of the School for Gifted Unicorns.”
A creak. A turn.
“Hmmm... I don’t know, it just seems a bit too small, you know? Don’t you have this one in a slightly larger format?”
Hooves moving in a manner that suggests an upsize would be appreciated. A swift little shake of the head indicating here’s none to be had.
“I can try to look in the index and order one for you perhaps, if you’d like?”
A wince. A lost sale.
“Ah, well... I was hoping to buy one just now, to be honest. I need something for my living room in short order.”
“That’s very understandable ma’am, I hope you find your choice sofa elsewhere. No interest in any quills?”
The attempt fell flat on the hard concrete surface of a closed face, then slid off with the firm shake of the head that served as the answer. Ma’am doesn’t write all too often you see, and her old quill is still very good, thank you very much. Little pleasantries were exchanged, and then she left with the ring of the bell set up by the door.
Davenport allowed himself a brief huff once he was alone again.
Well, that was the nature of the game, wasn’t it? He went in everyday, opened up his little shop, and tried to make his sales. Whether they happened or not, whether there were any customers at all, that wasn’t up to him. Or, well, not entirely up to him. It was still up to him to a point, as far as presentation, charisma and sweet talking went -- but whether the products pleased the wannabe customer? Well, he didn’t make them. He just sold them.
Still, with the mare gone to try her luck elsewhere, Davenport found himself alone in the shop. That was a welcome break after a few hours of on and off rushing and talking, speed-catering to customers with unequal amounts of success. A few sales to order. He wondered idly, had he forgotten anything?
All around him, the backdrop of Quills and Sofas was reduced to ink splotches, splattered colors in vaguely defined shapes that he hadn’t paid attention to in a long time. He knew the place by heart, there was no reason to look at it anymore, not with eyes that were aware of details. Like a sword that had been used too many times, his retinas were dulled to the battle of making sense of the surroundings he’d been in for so long, leaving everything to melt and bend and reorganize itself around him while his body moved. Here, a sofa; there, a couch; somewhere, a quill. It didn’t really matter.
The swirl focused when he got to the counter. There, the machine took over. He could get a moment to focus on accounting. Muscles tensed and flexed, eyelids lowered. He took the time to fish out a pair of reading glasses he kept stashed on the side of the counter to ease the process. They appeared clearly in his view.
A black, unassuming frame, solid and functional. Nothing daring, nothing personal. These were the professional glasses of a professional stallion, one who didn’t want any comments on the way he carried himself -- whether good or bad. Davenport saw himself in the reflection, a distorted, shadowy outline half-eaten by the sunlight pouring in through the windows. The neat angles seemed curved. He didn’t waste more time putting them on after that.
However, before he could indulge the world of numbers and inventory rows, cries echoed outside. Reflexively glancing out the windows, Davenport watched as two foals passed the entrance of the store. They were running, screaming at each other -- cries of unchecked happiness, the sort of sounds only made in happy, blissful childhood. He blinked at that, at the outside.
It reminded him of when he was their age. A brief instant he could see himself running again through the green hills of Ponyville, racing for some meaningless childish challenge, searching for something, what was it? A blue scarf? He liked blue already back then. No, not a blue scarf. Blue skies. He remembered it, he heard it now, felt that rumble in that chest as he screamed:
“Race you to the top!”
His heart thundered with youthful pride, his hooves pounded the ground. Davenport ran with the wild abandon of childhood. Still unaware that one could get hurt when falling, or at least unafraid of a scraped knee and a band-aid, he ran, huffing and puffing, pushing his body into overdrive.
That was the beauty of being a foal surely, that you could afford to tackle every challenge you set for yourself with such reckless energy. Unstoppable force of nature, bound only to the physical realm by the clock that said when you had to sit behind a school desk and when you got to let loose and retire into your own world. It was certainly a happier time then, before he grew older and became aware of things children were hopefully not privy to.
He could just run free, so he ran.
Ahead of him was his long-time friend Daisy. She was shorter than him but she’d gotten a good head start. That left him scrambling to make up the distance, running ever faster, tearing at his endurance. The ground shook and cracked underneath him, the smell of grass and summer, intoxicating, was filling up his lungs in ever greater gulps as he frantically galloped.
The two of them tore up the hill, laughing, panting, screaming the whole way up. They ran until they were out of the town properly, until the countryside swallowed them into a sea of green grass, golden wheat fields and emerald trees. A warm, sunny summer day and a hill -- that was all you needed sometimes when you were young.
Eventually however, they couldn’t keep running. More importantly, Davenport caught up with Daisy -- and that was with the last of his strength that he lunged and caught her on the side. With an undignified little ‘eep!’ of surprise, his catch flopped down. So did he. They rolled down a few feet, tumbled into a heap, and then stopped.
Hearts beating a thousand mile, Davenport laughed. So did Daisy once she’d recovered, and that emboldened him to laugh even more openly. They stayed there, close to one another, giggling like the foals they were, until Daisy finally mustered the strength to elbow him on the side and got him to roll off. Then they were just lying down in that summer grass, staring up at the blue, blue skies above them while they recovered.
“I still won,” Daisy said.
Davenport huffed but had to concede -- she’d been on the hill first and they weren’t playing tag.
The rest of their brief discussion on play rules was lost to time, he didn’t quite remember what they got up to, but he remembered that moment, that scent of summer, that golden sunshine and the sheen it gave her mane. He remembered the clouds.
There weren’t too many of them in the skies. Up above, so far away from the two of them, pegasi were arranging them. The local division of the weather patrol. That brought him and Daisy to the ever-fantasized topic of the future, when they weren’t foals anymore but big important adults. They didn’t have a cutie mark yet and that meant anything was possible.
At that point they’d settled by one of the older trees on the hill, a nice big oak that gave a lot of shade. They weren’t tired of sunlight, but the heat was a bother after a while outside and they wanted to settle and look at the skies without burning their retinas out.
“It’s not fair that pegasi can shape the clouds like that,” Daisy said, in the annoyed tone of a child being refused a ride at a theme park. “I wanna shape things like that too!”
“Yeah, but like, my dad says they can’t do quite as much with the earth as we do,” Davenport pointed out. That was true, their whole little village was a show of that. “They get the skies, we get the plants...”
“...And unicorns get the fancy magic, I know,” Daisy finished, rolling her eyes. “Come on though, I wanna... I just wanna make stuff that looks cool like that.” She huffed dejectedly, pointing at the skies. “I don’t wanna be a farmer like mom and dad.”
Davenport tapped his hooves to the ground and nodded. It was an anxious topic, though he didn’t quite know that word yet at the time, anxiety. Instead it was just this weird ball that tightened up his guts and made words harder than they should be.
“Well, I wanna be a writer,” he said.
Daisy made big wide eyes at him. You, a writer, he almost expected her to say. Instead she smiled.
“Woah, that’s so cool,” she said. “Did you write anything yet?”
He winced at the unexpected question. “N-no, I uh, I just like to read books so I thought it could be cool.”
Daisy chuckled. “I bet you wrote stuff and you’re embarrassed,” she teased him.
He squirmed at that, chuckled awkwardly. “A-and you, you want to do something special when you’re bigger? A cutie mark in mind?”
Nice diversion. It worked out. Daisy held out a hoof to her mouth in thought. It was her turn to hesitate.
“I dunno but like, I’d like to create stuff, I think.”
“Oh, well, maybe you could like, create the biggest pumpkins in all of Equestria.”
They laughed.
“Not like that, silly,” Daisy said. “Like, something pretty. A bit like writing. Something people look at and they’re like, woahhhh, you made this? And I’m like, I made this.” She took a cocky pose, and they laughed again.
The laughter lost itself in the ether but he still remembered that moment. It’d been the first time he’d admitted to someone what he wanted to do, a little moment up a hill gazing down at all the world he knew then and pondering the world he would know afterwards.
Three weeks later, Daisy got her cutie mark and discovered her passion for floral patterns. She didn’t end up pursuing that as much in time, but back then her love for flowers became real. He got her a little encyclopedia on flower types for her birthday, and it was presumably still on a shelf somewhere.
Davenport, on his end, had to wait a little more. He tried his hoof at writing here and there, researched what he needed, sought it out, made a pitch to his family... and then here it was. The quill and the sofa adorning his flanks. After that things became more complicated -- he started growing up.
The lack of screaming brought Davenport back from his reverie. He realized the foals were gone and he was staring at nothing particular outside. Reflexively, he glanced to the side of the town where that hill was before reminding himself he couldn’t see it from inside the store. Davenport shared a mirthless little chuckle with himself, then finally put on his glasses and dove into numbers.
Sales were sales. They weren’t necessarily fun to sort through and organize, but they didn’t judge you. They didn’t require a particularly creative mind either -- a perfect fit for the machine. It took over silently again, as it always did. The snap of joints and groans of muscles joined the scratching of the quill on paper, the rhythmic little ‘bloop’ of periodic dips into the inkwell, the little huffs of thought.
He ‘wrote’ a lot, in a way. Wrote down everything that he did, everything that he bought and sold. Organized his life neatly into little rows of numbers and names that corresponded to imaginary and real bits both, debts that were repaid in advance by a planning that he was constantly remaking. His hoofwriting was delicate and proper -- that was something he was very proud of, how neat it was. Everyone always commented favorably on it, even when he was a foal. Perhaps that’s why he thought...
... but it was the machine’s time to shine. He wrote harder, worked harder. Drowned out all the possible thoughts he might have into the still ocean of labor. For a brief moment in time nothing existed but the numbers, always the numbers, as he scrawled them neatly onto the accounting book one row at a time. The gentle curves of a refined writing style became excuses to get the mind to settle down, a return to the promised perfection, the polished progress of productivity personified in those tight lines that governed his life.
Gradually the mind did settle, and he felt himself relax into the task he knew he could achieve. That’s when he paused, to breathe but also because he didn’t need to overwork himself either. After all, if there was no work to be done, he could hardly work his worries away.
Besides, Davenport realized midday was approaching fast when his stomach, the ever dutiful machine, started to growl. One look at the clock he kept on his counter confirmed that: it was eleven fifty-two. No wonder there were no new customers, they were all probably busy eating.
“Go get yourself a sandwich, Davenport,” he told himself, a mutter meant only for berating himself. “You’ve got half the day to get through yet.”
The glasses returned into their proper hold, and then it was time for lunch.
Closing the shop was easy, though he did linger the eight remaining minutes, edging ever closer to the door until it was time. The moment the clock hit twelve, his hoof turned the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’, the other tugged his collar back into a proper shape, and then he opened the door and left.
Outside, the day continued to be neat. Though he’d long outgrown the childhood wonder he once aimed at every tree and colorful bug he met, Davenport still had eyes for the common beauty of things. How light hit a specific wall, the pleasing slant of that one house he passed by every day, that one bench surrounded by bushes and flowers that looked right out of a corny novel... he never failed to notice all of those, as if their continued existence in his path had to be constantly renewed. In a way they did, he thought, as he passed them by. Without that dose of ordinary extraordinary sights, the world would be greyer, and the dull iron of his routine would surely rust -- instead it shone at parts, a reminder that beauty existed in the world and that it wasn’t locked out of his grasp.
In a few minutes, he’d reached the restaurant where he usually ate his lunches. It wasn’t much to look at, one of these places that landed somewhere in the middle of the scale between fancy eatery and local bar. A single building, a little cramped but warm-looking, with an old-school little wooden sign that read “Au Bonheur” on it. He’d learned long ago the prench was mostly for show, since the only trace of Prench the owner and her husband had was a fifth cousin related from somewhere to some minor line of winemakers. True to its dubious naming scheme, the restaurant was a little bit grimy and a little bit shiny, a little bit too much and a little bit not enough. There were a few tables outside, adorned in adorable little blue and white checkered sheets that had seen better days.
He usually sat at the one to the side on the left, a bit hidden by plants and stranded aside from the rest. As always, he hesitated. Maybe he could sit with the bulk of tables this time, or even inside? A quick glance confirmed, however, that some ponies were already occupying the tables on the corners. He made eye contact with one of them, made an awkward smile, and decided to sit at his usual spot instead.
A few minutes later, the waiter/part-owner/husband arrived. Green Beans, he was called. A nice, friendly fellow, green from hooves to pointy mustache, with an easy smile and a knack for making customers feel at home at the Au Bonheur.
“Ah, Davenport, sir,” he said as he passed, taking time to stop and exchange pleasantries. “On time as always. How are things at the store? I was thinking of going by to get a new box of quills for the shop sometimes today, you know how Cinnamon can get when she gets backed up on accounting. Getting the usual?”
As always, it took Davenport a little moment to get the words out of his mouth. “The shop wasn’t too busy, so I wrapped up on time,” he said reflexively, like always. “I have a special offer on office supplies running today.” A pause, a squirm. He talked of his work mechanically, but it always annoyed him that he sounded so robotic when he did so. “And, yes, the usual please, thank you.”
The stallion nodded in understanding and left. A few minutes later he came back with a plate comprising a delightful daffodil sandwich, a cup of coffee and a large glass of water. That was the usual, of course. They always put a little extra daffodil in there for him compared to the price, which he theorized was because he ate there for lunch every workday in at least a decade.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Much obliged.”
Then there wasn’t much speaking. Green Beans had other clients to attend to, and Davenport had a meal to eat.
He ate in small bites, took his time, and drank his coffee. While he did so, he indulged himself and observed. That was the other secret pleasure with his usual spot -- he was facing the street and could see the world, the other customers, everything. Workers transporting furniture down the main street here, older ponies enjoying an afternoon at the park there. One sight caught his eye especially however that time, as he dug into his daffodil sandwich.
Two young mares in early adulthood on a bench, one with her head on the other’s shoulder. A couple, undoubtedly. They looked happy. Davenport felt dirty looking at them, as if he was stealing part of their happiness just by daring to look. He ducked down into his plate for a moment, then looked again. His brow furrowed, his shoulders rounded, and suddenly he looked much older than he was. It only lasted for a second, before he forced himself back to a proper posture.
His mind, however, had gone to wander again. Back to a time where he, too, was on a bench with someone.
It was years after the hill and the tree. School years had come and gone, bodies had matured and skills had been honed. After years of regular schooling, Davenport had gone on to a business school, on the counsel of his parents, teachers, friends and the occasional stranger met on the streets.
He was good at it. The marks on his flanks said so, the way he worked said so, his grades said so. Still, he’d accepted the change with a heavy heart because it meant moving away to study in Canterlot for a time. The students there were mostly from Canterlot, unicorns or not, and he had a hard time really fitting in, even if he was on friendly terms with most of the other students. Furthermore, and perhaps more importantly, it meant he saw his old friends less, including Daisy.
Daisy and her sisters were building a business directly, in a less formal way. Simply, the three of them had ended up having talents and passions related to flowers, and it made sense that the three of them should band together to sell flowers at the local marketplace for the time being, with the financial support of their parents. Besides, Daisy, while skilled in school, never had an interest in prolonging her time on the school benches. Getting out into the real world now was simply the better option.
It meant they had less and less time to see each other. Davenport found that the hard way, when the weekends he’d be back in town and she’d be busy organizing an event or preparing for market days here and there. Sometimes he managed to go and help set the stalls up, offered to do accounting, but he had his own fatigue from studies to manage.
That day however, they had time to spend. Uncertain of what to do, he’d proposed a walk through Ponyville, perhaps to that hill they used to go to? Instead they’d stopped halfway, on one of the new benches the new mayor campaigned to install in the streets. They sat close together, observed the world, kicked their hooves as they talked of life and whatnot. He didn’t remember everything, but he remembered when she got just a little closer to him, a few minutes into it.
“So, how’s life in Canterlot treating you?” She asked, looking away, at nothing in particular he could discern. There was an edge in her voice he couldn’t make out.
“It’s fine,” he answered. “The room is pretty small, but that’s the best we could do without me taking on a job on top of the studies to make rent. It’s a mess honestly, books everywhere.” He didn’t talk about the piled up plates in his sink or the yet unwashed laundry.
She chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry, my room is hardly better. Someone has to manage accounting for the three of us.”
Davenport smiled. “I can imagine that.”
There was a break, a pause, and then Daisy leaned back, and Davenport looked at her as she did. He caught it again, in the colder glow of autumn, the sheen of her mane, in her eyes. It was silvery this time, but still beautiful in ways he couldn't properly describe. She looked at him too, and she smiled.
“Look at us,” she said, sighing, before she closed her eyes. The smile was still there. “Busy with numbers. Do you remember that one time, under the tree?”
Davenport nodded. Of course he did. He’d always remember. With her eyes closed, Daisy didn’t see -- but it didn’t matter. She continued.
“I guess I got what I wanted in a way,” she said. “I create things, and people look at it and say, I want to exchange money for this. I feel like I mostly do accounting, but it’s to do something I like.”
“I’m happy for you,” he started to say, but she continued.
“And you, Davenport? I remember you wanted to write,” she said gently, softly. “Do you still want to?”
He didn’t know what to say for a time. Silence dragged on, but she didn’t press him. She knew how he worked, after all.
“I... well, in a way,” he finally answered. “I have a notebook I keep on my desk in case the mood strikes me. Sometimes I scribble down ideas.” He didn’t admit the notebook had been mostly blank for the past few months. Robbed of the green hills of Ponyville, absorbed in stress, he only thought in numbers.
More silence. Neither of them had the heart to say it, but they knew, Davenport remembered that, that it was like they were mourning that dream upon that hill -- shattered into the realities of life. Davenport wouldn’t be a writer, he would get himself a job and a wage. Daisy was turning her passion into a job and a wage, and she didn’t know if she liked that idea. That was how it was.
Daisy leaned a little closer after that, however. Enough to make his fur bristle.
“You’re going back to Ponyville when you’re done with your studies, aren’t you, Davenport?” She asked, in a whisper. Like she was afraid to ask out loud.
“I... yeah, I am,” he said. He’d never imagined otherwise. Moving to another place, making plans, it was all beyond him. His only plan was to keep going the way he had in front of him, and hope it landed him on his four hooves.
“Good,” she answered, getting closer still. “I’d miss you otherwise.”
“I... I’d miss you too,” he replied, mechanically, but the machine was jammed. Syllables were getting stuck in the gears and the words came out torn up by a strange stutter.
Suddenly she was all up in his face.
“I, well,” she said, hesitated, then dove ahead.
Lips made contact without a sound. Davenport remembered that like he was outside of his body at the time, a shock, a tremor that made everything spin and exist upside down. He didn’t even manage to kiss back, but then she didn’t prolong the kiss. It was a sneaked moment, a little shot at something that could be.
They looked at each other an instant, flustered. Neither of them said a word, like they didn’t quite know what to do with what just happened. Finally, Daisy rested her head on his shoulder, and they stayed for a while on that bench, uncertain but warm.
Eventually, they had to say goodbye and return to their weeks. For a long time, neither of them spoke of that moment. Of that high of emotions that seemed to go into nowhere, and to disappear. Daisy waited a moment, Davenport was too scared to answer. They never went to the park together again after that, even if they still met up from time to time, whenever they could. It would hurt too much -- like going back on the spot where a loved one died.
The thought of it still made him sigh late at night, when he felt most the absence of someone to hold in his cold bed. The both of them were so busy, he reasoned, but deep down he knew he was too scared, too meek. He hoped Daisy understood it too, when she finally seemed to move on -- when he stopped seeing that hope in her eyes.
Davenport finished his sandwich in silence, gulped down his coffee, and paid with a few words and a hoof-full of bits. He didn’t look the couple’s way as he all but fled the restaurant to escape back to his store.
The squeezing pressure in his guts felt particularly out of place when compared to the calm golden hues of the day, and the smiles of every pony going about their day in shiny little Ponyville. He gulped it down, sighed, tried to fit his character a little better as he made his way towards the store.
He was Davenport, the pony with the blue jacket. He sold quills often, sofas occasionally. His business was open six days out of seven, from seven to six. He would greet you with a smile and mean it.
Davenport adjusted his collar, inspired, exhaled. The walk to the store, though short in distance, felt unbelievably long. He felt like he was being peered at by everyone he met -- like he could see, behind the friendly greetings, in the depth of those big welcoming eyes, the shadow of pity, of judgment. Like if they knew. They probably knew.
Who was Davenport, afterall, besides owning Quills and Sofa? What did he do? Where did he go for his time off? They probably knew he always ordered the same thing at that restaurant, and that he spent his life working so obsessively because he didn’t know what else he could be doing. He was so proper, so constructed, but everyone could see what he was : the machine, the automaton that spouted out sales and kept the store running for the sheer sake of keeping it running. He’d been doing this for twenty years now, he was nearing the end of his thirties, and what did he have to show for it? He was alone. His friends were constantly busy. He ate the same breakfast, the same lunch, the same dinner every day, at the same hours. He only existed as a construct -- a thing, a being that was irremediably tied to his business, to his work, without reprisal. He hadn’t carved out a social existence for himself. He was... he was...
He almost hit his face into the door of his shop, only stopping when he realized that he was staring at his hooves and that in front of those hooves was a familiar and very real door. It had the merit of snapping him out of whatever that was.
A sigh. A sharp inhale, then a shuddering exhale. He closed his eyes, waited a second, then fished out the key and unlocked the door. He was about to push the door when a familiar voice rang out from behind him.
“Davenport,” she said, with incredible gentleness.
That voice. Roseluck. He paused, processed that.
Roseluck. One of the three flower sisters of Ponyville. A semi-regular customer, like everyone else in town when they needed a quill. Probably on the higher side of the average, because she was often the one who went and bought quills for the sisters, in bulk. She liked those geese quills with the little red tip at the end that he got from a manufacturer in Canterlot that were lightly enchanted to have smoother writing for hoof writers. She also stopped shopping quite as often after she got that typewriter a few years ago. He’d heard Daisy talk about it once.
That was the more important part, actually. He chastised himself for starting by defining her as a customer rather than a friend. That’s what she was, above all: Daisy’s sister, and by extension, due to hanging out so often over the years, even indirectly, a friend. A friend who happened to have creative aims, even if he and she never talked about it face to face.
He was surprised to see her for a second, he hadn’t seen her in a bit. Then he figured she was here for another bulk order of quills.
“Roseluck,” he said, a little hurriedly, realizing he hadn’t spoken for a little moment. “Sorry, you caught me a little early, let me finish opening the store.”
After saying that, he actually pushed the door, turned around to face her, and reached out with a hoof to turn that closed sign back to open. That’s when he finally crossed eyes with her. Surprised, he stopped.
Roseluck seemed tired. Like she’d lost a battle with something. She offered him an exhausted but warm smile. She did have her saddlebags on her, though -- clearly doing her weekly shopping.
“Dear, you seem tired, Roseluck,” he finally said, taking the time to actually achieve his movement and flip the sign before he focused on her again. “Hard time sleeping last night?”
She shrugged. “Something like that, yeah,” she replied, glancing at him with those tired eyes. “So do you, though. Maybe we’re just getting older.” Her smile was still there, tinged with something Davenport didn’t quite place.
Davenport rested a hoof on the door, opened it wider, pushed in the door stopper, then leaned back and huffed.
“We’re certainly not getting any younger,” he concurred. “I didn’t have to catch my breath opening this door before. Maybe I need to exercise.”
They proceeded with pleasantries as Roseluck entered the store. Internally, Davenport felt uneasy. He’d been hoping to take a second to breathe and recenter himself on being the machine, unthinking -- the seller. However, the irruption of someone he knew quite well into his store foiled that escape plan. He had to be himself, however himself he could be with others. Keep himself under some wraps, but not all.
Throughout all that, he could also notice that tiredness in Roseluck’s demeanor, and he felt like he could understand it. He was tired, too. Tired of himself, of running ahead hoping things would get easier later down the line. They never did, did they? Going ahead without daring only led him to a life of being tired, of being exhausted.
“I haven’t seen you in a few months at the store,” he finally noted as he slipped behind the counter. “What brings you to Quills and Sofa, exactly? Need a new shipment for the business?”
Roseluck nodded. “Yeah, wait, let me fish out the bill.” She dug into a saddlebag, produced a paper and put it on the counter. He barely gave it a glance -- didn’t need to be thorough working with long-time friends like that. “Daisy’s been running out of quills and up a wall with all the new orders we’ve been getting. So am I, to be honest.” She yawned.
That piqued Davenport’s interest.
“New orders?” He asked, a little bluntly, before curbing his curiosity a bit by reminding himself to be professional. “Let me get you the order slip, hang on.”
He dipped under the counter. A pile of various folders were hidden there, the archives of an entire life of work. Every time he saw it under that counter he thought about how everything would be lost if the store were to catch fire. Then, like every time, he pushed those thoughts away -- he had no time to have a copy made, and no wish to carry them back to his place.
Instead, he grabbed the biggest folder, the one aptly titled “folder n°1, Flower Sisters”. It was very cold-looking, very professional, or at least it would be, if not for the signatures the three had added, with little hearts and flowers doodled in the margins.
“Yeah,” Roseluck’s voice came muffled through the countertop. “We’re providing part of the floral arrangements for the next gala. You can imagine how high-strung Daisy is as a result.”
That made Davenport shiver. The gala. Talk about a tall order. Flowers for such a big event. He’d be damned if he didn’t feel some pang of jealousy -- they were moving so high up, had such ambition, and he was so... boring. Neatly parked in his lane, waiting out the years. He muffled a sigh and grabbed that folder, opened it up, grabbed the slip. Then, he took a moment to compose himself before coming back up into the world.
Roseluck was there. She took the order slip wordlessly, stuffed it in the same spot the paper she handed him had been. A seamless, well-oiled exchange. All the opposite of the awkward affair with his mouth and the words that he made come out of it. It made Davenport unhappy that he was this bad at the friend part.
“No wonder you need new quills with all this work,” He finally responded. He wondered idly if he should try to visit the shop sometimes, before returning his attention to Roseluck. He stumbled for words for a time, then settled for something simple when he found nothing good. “Will that be everything?”
Roseluck glanced at him, then hummed. “Well, let me check,” she said. Davenport could see her reading the slip for half a second, a reflex while she thought of the rest in her head. After a moment, something seemed to click. “Oh! Yes, I actually came for something else,” she finally noted. “I need... I need more quills, for personal use.”
“Oh, you mean the red quills?” Davenport was surprised, but his salespony mouth was faster than his mind. “The enchanted ones?”
Roseluck nodded firmly. “Yes, exactly.”
“Any particular reason?” Davenport noticed her stiffening ever so slightly, and backed off, nervously rubbing the back of his neck with a hoof. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry, it’s just been so long since you did that I, well, I got curious.”
Roseluck made a face, then smiled at him. “Oh, don’t worry, I just, well, it’s embarrassing, maybe.”
Davenport raised an eyebrow at that. “Is it now?” He asked.
“I just think I write better with a quill. The typewriter hasn’t been too kind on me.” Roseluck let that hang for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, at least it’s worth a shot,” she added quietly after that.
Davenport thought about that. Roseluck, he’d never seen what she wrote, but he knew she tried her damnedest to get something out and he respected that. He knew how hard she worked, how passionate she was about what she did. In a way, it was inspiring, too. Maybe if she ever did get her story out, so could he someday. For now, he simply smiled at her -- and he remarked with some happiness that there was a real warmth in that smile. It wasn’t him putting on a mask there, for once.
“It’s always worth a shot,” he said, and he believed that too. For a little moment. He liked that feeling, how the words felt on his tongue. It almost tasted like fresh air. “Let me get you one of those.”
Roseluck glanced at him, and though her eyes were still tired, her smile was warm too. “Thank you, Davenport,” she said.
She left the store a few minutes later, laden with a full box of quills for work, and a smaller, rosier, gift-wrapped box just for herself. Davenport watched her go with some amount of pride and hope. Yes, he thought. If Roseluck could somehow do it, what excuse would he have left to not act upon his own dreams?
In the meantime however, the march of time was relentless. Soon enough, sundown came, and with it the time to close up shop and go back home. It was a silent affair that he tended to with practiced ease, though this time he allowed his mind to wander a little bit more than usual as he locked the locks, shut off the lights, dusted the floors and stepped out. The golden rays of the sun were heavy and turning redder by the minute. There was some sort of evening smell in the air, something nice and hearty that made one want to be home. Davenport adjusted his collar one last time, turned the key in the lock and left.
As he walked home, his mind went back to Roseluck, to Daisy, to writing. He pondered all of that with a hum.
How the years had gone, he thought. They’d gone fast and without so much as a goodbye, leaving nothing but the constant push to go ahead like a train engine hopped up on coal. He’d given up on everything slowly, bit by bit, aside from the drive to keep getting up and show up to work on time.
His friends had lost the time they once had to hang out together.
His desires had gotten muddied and left behind for the sake of time.
His hobbies had been eaten up by the constant pace of work.
His mind had been taken over by the ever-spinning wheel of the machine of self-discipline that kept him going no matter what or how he felt.
In spite of all that, he thought, there were some nice moments. Some bits of warmth in what seemed to be an ever so slowly growing autumn - one that would someday lead to winter. He could feel it in the air, that the spring and summer of life were already gone. He wouldn’t get to see those golden glows anymore in Daisy’s mane. Instead, they would both bear the bags under their eyes of people who worked hard and harder still.
In that winter though, there always was firewood for the hearth. At least he hoped so. He was kind of lost in that metaphor his mind was trying to build, and he didn’t know enough about fireplaces to really make it work -- but in his mind, that was a fine enough analogy. Things seemed cold at times, and oftentimes even. He kept himself up like a machine because that was what he had to do. Yet, he remembered that warm smile, and that made him happy. Even machines needed fuel to keep working, he mused with a sneaky little smile as he walked through the emptier streets of Ponyville.
Even Davenport.
He unlocked the door a few minutes later, after allowing himself to wander a little. The little house he lived in was dark and silent. He sighed, shrugged, and closed the door behind him. It was warm inside, at least.
His trajectory took him to his little kitchen, where he quickly fixed up some form of casserole and set it to simmer gently. There wasn’t much to do besides observe it, so he sat down and did just that. Sometimes he had to twirl the wooden spoon just so, and sometimes not. It cooked gently, filling his nostrils with the scent of food, but he was patient and much too perfectionist to let his senses get the better of him. Twirl, twirl, think, think.
What a day it had been once again. It had its ups and downs, and its sideway curves too, stuck between memories and furtive hopes, lost and gained sales. Like always, a mixed bag.
The thinking was muffled by eating soon enough. He could feel the tiredness setting in after a long day. Muttering to himself about this or that, he thought about Roseluck again -- reenacted the entire thing in his mind. Some reenactments were kinder to him, others less so, but he was used to that from his brain. Spinning with the wind, as always. Unable to decide whether he was happy or not. Still, he wasn’t able to ruin for himself the memory of that warm smile he’d given. It still radiated through him, rippled like echoes of a stone being thrown into a pond. He liked it.
The plate was washed and stored neatly, as always, and then he went to rinse off. Off went the jacket, and out was Davenport. He was just himself again. That nondescript brown stallion-like thing, unformed, undecipherable. Barely sentient, so far from the container that gave him his neat, well-kept facade. What was a pony without their constructed self? A wild foal allowed to run up the hill again, or just some form of primordial ooze? He felt like both as he folded the clothes neatly and hid them away in their reliquaries. There would be time yet to be someone again, but for now he was just something and that would be just fine. Something fed, something warm, something who could maybe hope for more someday.
The shower hissed and hot water came pouring out, and he couldn’t resist a little grunt of pleasure as he closed his eyes and focused on the cleansing pulse. He didn’t think then, or at least not of anything serious. He allowed his fancy to glance into that quill again, into the hope of something else. He thought of when he’d gotten his cutie mark and the years after that.
It took Davenport a long time to understand his cutie mark. He was just a foal, and no matter what others may tell you, it’s not just because something appears on your thigh that you know what it means immediately, especially when it’s a bit obtuse. He’d gotten his while buying writing supplies, after saving up on his allowance. His heart told him it was because he was going to be a writer. His mind, and his parents, understood it better. They understood that it was because he knew how to handle buying writing supplies, specifically.
“Quills and Sofas, the two tools of a writer,” they told him more than once. “You know how to supply that. That’s a career!”
Of course, when you want only one thing and your life looks like something else, it’s a tough pill to swallow. Torn between the two, he tried various things. Ignoring life and trying for passion. Hyperfocusing on life and ignoring hobbies. A mix of both. It melted, changed, and over the years he grew into a stallion with studies to attend to and friends to say goodbye to, in a way. Just like that hill lived on in his memories, so did his old dreams.
On the day he opened Quills and Sofas, he still felt like he didn’t understand. He stood there, in front of the doors, looking at the building like it was about to swallow him whole.
“Well, we did it, didn’t we?” His father said, tapping him on the shoulder. “Look at you, all grown up. A real stallion.”
“It’s a beauty,” his mother concurred, eyes on the store.
Davenport looked at the doors, he remembered that. The reflections in the door. His parents were older, close to retirement, but they looked exactly like he was starting to look - tired, adult, perfectly neat. They’d built themselves into who they were and so would he. He remembered that glance, the first look of that blue jacket, much less fine then. Rarity hadn’t opened her boutique yet.
“Hopefully it works out,” he said, with a little huff of stress, already adjusting his collar. It had been a lot of work to get to this point.
“No reason it wouldn’t, it’s your cutie mark after all,” his mother replied.
Davenport thought about that and hummed. It was his cutie mark, yeah. Probably.
The opening day was nice. It was cloudy, busy, a bit underwhelming on the celebration side of things, but a few of his friends had made the effort of showing up to support him. Especially the Flower Sisters. Especially Daisy.
They met in the midst of boxes, sofas and test quills being used to mark stuff in the inventory as they were being pulled in by the willing help. A few months earlier Davenport had helped with Daisy’s own little flower stand opening, along with the sisters, but this was a tad bigger, a tad more intimidating. A brick and mortar store, it was. Easier to get credits for that sort of venture when you have a business degree on top of your cutie mark.
“So, you’re doing it, eh?” She told him with a little smile and a punch on the shoulder.
They chuckled. Davenport was still a little nervous around her ever since that day on the bench, but her presence was nice on such a stressful day. Calming, even.
“I guess I am,” he replied. “Gotta follow my cutie mark.”
“Yeah, I guess we all do,” Daisy said.
They were silent for a moment, contemplating a few boxes, and that front door that seemed so intimidating. Soon enough, he would be hanging an open/closed sign on there, and it would be the real door of a real store where one sells quills and sofas. An original concept, if any.
“We’re adults now, aren’t we, Davenport?” Daisy finally said. She didn’t look at him, but he could still feel her eyes on him somehow.
“Yeah,” he answered. “We are.”
“I miss that hill,” she said simply. Unable to let her hooves sit still, she took up moving boxes around, passing them to those who sought them to bring them in. Softly, she announced them to Davenport, who joted them down in turn on the inventory. “When everything was simpler.”
Davenport was silent there. He remembered he just didn’t have any words to express how much he agreed. How much he thought of the bench too, and the hopes he’d dashed.
After a time, boxes were running lower. Daisy glanced at him again. He remembered that glean again, in her mane, in her eyes. It was like bronze, slowly becoming oxidized over time but still striking. She already had bags under her eyes but bore them valiantly, like someone locked in an endless fight. He undoubtedly would look like that soon, he thought. Well, without the charm she had.
Her hoof touched his leg and he squirmed. He thought, as he glanced in her eyes, about kissing her. He could do it. He could have done it then and didn’t, but maybe it wasn’t too late to fix it.
“Hey, Davenport,” Daisy said gently. “Don’t let the work get to your head, yeah? I know it fits the cutie mark and all that, but...” she chuckled at herself, looked down at where her hoof met his leg. “I still want to read that story of yours someday, when you write it. Just like how you liked to look at my bouquets when I was trying them out, you know?”
“I still like to look at them,” he replied. “I was... it’s dumb, but I was thinking of having you and your sisters put flower beds in front of my shop, actually.”
Daisy smiled. “Sure, we can do that. Get us a crate of quills for our inventory keeping and we’ll get that done in no time.” She glanced at the front of the shop, then back at him. “Just, don’t forget, yeah? I’ll always be happy to read it.”
“I won’t,” he said. “I don’t know when I’ll do it, but I won’t forget.”
He didn’t forget. He never found the time to write it, but he never forgot those words, and the way she looked at him when she said it. Maybe she knew then that it wouldn’t happen, or maybe she was trying to encourage him, to get him to not give in to the machine that was already showing. Either way, the years came and went and his story never came out. The only thing he wrote before long was order slips and inventories -- and so did she. Suddenly they’d slipped into adulthood’s grasp, and it never let go of them.
The shower came to an end with the squeak of old plumbing, and he took some time to dry himself with a towel before neatly folding it back and hanging it to dry. A little shake, a huff, a sidestep to avoid seeing himself in the mirror.
Bed found him just like that. After so much time thinking, so much time working, he aspired for a little peace of mind. He found it in the shape of a book he’d started a while ago, something fictive that he delighted in reading because it took him out of himself for a little bit. He barely made it in a few pages more before feeling too tired to continue, however. With a disciplined little sigh, he put the bookmark where he’d stopped, set it squarely on the night table, and shut off the lights.
The world danced briefly in the darkness of his ceiling as he laid there. A day had ended, another had to start soon enough. For now he was in that frontier, that fine limit where closing his eyes and opening them again would mean another start -- another day just like the previous, with its rhythm, its mandatory work hours and moments of short solace. It all mixed together on the ceiling however, the hill, the bench, the sandwich.
He saw Daisy in his mind, running towards a tree. He saw Roseluck writing something with her quills. He saw his parents talking of school, of his shop. He saw customers, inventory lists, boxes and cartons, quills and sofas. Books, bookmarks and hopes alike, square and sorted. It was all neatly arranged in little bubbles.
The only thing he didn’t see in all of that was himself. In spite of everything, it was still missing -- that self-esteem, that recognition of his own value as himself and not just as the observer of all the neat things in his life, the removed visitor looking at reality through his eyes instead of living it. In everything that was neat, Davenport was missing himself.
He blinked, then frowned at that ceiling that persisted in telling him what he already knew, tapped his hooves to his chest and brought the blanket up higher, until it was under his chin.
“Maybe I’ll go see Daisy tomorrow,” he muttered up at that irritating, all-knowing ceiling. “Ask Roseluck if she wants to join a book club or something.”
Then you’ll leave me alone, that’s what he wanted to add. Instead, he chose to try and focus on the memory of that gleam in manes he could see sometimes, and on the warmth of smiles. They were meant for him sometimes, he tried to tell himself. Hopefully someday he would even manage to believe it.
Until then, he closed his eyes. Eventually he even slept. As the machine slumbered like the tired train engine it was, waiting for its refuel of coal, his mind soared towards that hill he dreamed upon once. Thoughts weaved stories that waited only to be written, polished rough emotion into creative expression, peeled away at the office wallpaper plastered all over his mind. There would be enough drab neatness to be had in the morning.
In his sleep, furtively, Davenport dared to dream again.