Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The mounted wall clock behind him could just barely make itself heard under the dull white noise of the television, a blandly delivered weather report of absolutely no interest droned on. Even the weatherman seemed to have run out of things to say, rambling on about the same 'ensuing weather event' as he had before that, and the time before that.

Arin let out an exasperated sigh through his nostrils, arms draped lazily over the back of the sofa.

Only four more days to go until Suzy returned.

Arin craned his neck backwards, eyeing the clock on the wall to see how long it had been since eight, desperately wishing the time to hurry up and move forward already.

Two minutes past eight.

Arin grumbled vehemently under his breath, sinking further into the cushions. Boredom was irritating, to be sure, but doing things seemed slightly less appealing at the moment, and the sofa was comfortable. And the autumn air was still chilly outside, making it seem much comfier by comparison.

“Excuses, excuses,” he uttered gutturally as he hauled himself up, making instantly for the kitchen. Too late for a snack, not late enough for a beer. He frowned as he peered into the refrigerator, scratching absentmindedly at his thick auburn hair as he stared hard at an assortment of colored labels each welcomingly presented toward the front. He didn't manage to think much on it, the sound of the rattling doorknob alerting him.

Arin froze, suddenly feeling unbearably defenseless in his pajamas. He crept barefoot toward the rattling door, reaching instinctively for the first thing he found. Rolling pin tucked neatly as his side, he frowned and peered in mild paranoia out the peephole in the door, seeing no one. It took him a moment to realize that the noise had long since stopped.

Going crazy. You need to see a doctor.

“... Dan, you have a key,” he cleared his throat after a moment, no response oncoming. He harrumphed eventually, giving the sturdy installed locks a few more stern looks before dropping the rolling pin on the table. A good defense was an excellent way to deter potential burglars and/or fangirls, and the new alarm system was state of the art. Peace of mind reclaimed, Arin nodded once before trudging back.

He turned smack dab into a puff of pink.

“Hi there!”

“Jesusfuckshitballs!” Arin swore as he tripped over himself in a backpedaling blind panic, hitting the door and sliding down it.

“Actually, it's pronounced Pinkie Pie,” the bubbly mare giggled, ostentatiously and undeniably true to her namesake. Granted, she could have claimed to be Colonel Sanders for all Arin heard, as his brain seemed to refuse to process the events.

“... High,” he breathed eventually, a sharp pain thrumming in his left arm.

“Hi!” Pinkie beamed down at him, brushing a lock of mane from her face. “Not good with introductions, huh?”

“I am high as balls right now,” Arin murmured, all the feeling seemingly gone from his legs. “That's what it is. There's a gas leak and I'm tripping balls.”

“Oh, I get it!” Pinkie Pie grinned even wider than before, clapping her hooves together. “You're in denial, that happens to lots of ponies! I mean, usually that's not because of me – I mean, I don't think it's because of me, but, hey, some ponies just can't handle 'da Pink. Know what I'm sayin'?”

Arin pinched his eyes together tightly, taking a long, slow deep breath and holding it.

Okay. Don't panic. Talking horse. Cope with the situation.

“Helloooo?”

Arin jerked back when she waved her vibrantly pink hoof in front of his face, hitting his head hard against the door by accident. He scowled at the stinging sensation, the fuzzy mare still just as corporeal and inexplicably there as she had been ten seconds ago.

“How did you get in my house?” he started with the simplest of questions, unsteadily pulling himself to his feet and pretending not to see the outstretched hoof.

“Through the door. Duh,” Pinkie giggled as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Arin dared to glance back at the door when she said it, doing a double take almost immediately.

“... The door's locked.”

“Who said I came in through that door?” the pony replied slyly as he stealthily maneuvered himself around the table, attempting to inconspicuously draw closer to the rolling pin.

“There's just the one door,” he frowned, inching closer to it.

“You wanna try introducing yourself again?” the puffy-maned pony's constant smile was beginning to make him even more nervous. Too unnaturally upbeat. And it was a little grating. “Come on, I believe in you! Use your words, use your words!”

“Hey, you already know who I am, I'm in denial,” he responded swiftly, mind racing as fast as his heart was. He felt uncomfortably sweaty to boot, and it wasn't helping matters in the slightest.

Pinkie giggled loudly, a wild snort sneaking in.

“You're kinda funny...” Pinkie beamed widely.

“I'm, uh... I'm Arin,” he introduced himself eventually, forfeiting his opportunity to grab the rolling pin. “You're a horse.”

“Pony, actually!” she replied with a chipper tone. “Pinkamena Diane Pie, at your service,” Pinkie added an enthusiastic flourish to her bow.

“Still processing,” Arin point blank refused to blink.

“Take a minute!” she patted him warmly on the shoulder a couple of times before he could get out of her reach, her touch feeling just as unexpectedly real as anything else. “I'mma make some cupcakes while we wait. Cool? Then we can get this par-tay sta~rted!”

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” he waved her off with an air of stubborn disbelief.

“Neat-o!”

Pinkie Pie wasted no time in busying herself about the kitchen, humming a merry tune to herself as she gathered ingredients from his cupboards, never once having the slightest difficulty locating any; it was almost as if she knew precisely where everything was beforehand, and for some reason that seemed to upset him more than the door incident. It was just illogical. Arin quietly left while she was busy, and against all sense of reality she remained when he returned.

Much to Arin's surprise he had quite a few missed calls, all from very recently. Several messages were left on the small cellphone, and his frown deepened as he answered the latest call.

“-ean it man, if that's really what you're into now, that's cool and all, but your Photoshopping skills suck.”

“Dan?”

“Surely it is,” his friend's voice echoed back at him, and he was quick to lower the volume and back away from Pinkie a little more. “What's up man?”

“Get over here. Now.”

“Oh, wow. Didn't even take advantage of the 'don't call me Shirley' joke, this must be REALLY bad.”

“Get the police,” Arin breathed in a voice barely above a whisper. “Military, navy! Somebody, Christ on a pogo stick-”

The phone began buzzing violently, which Arin ignored.

“Whoa, hey, calm down dude,” Danny chortled on the other end. ”I'll bring some popcorn and we'll put on the second season on Netflix, it'll be like Suzy never left.”

“... What?” he pulled away from the phone for a moment, checking on the still busy Pinkie Pie. Somehow she had managed to already pull fully baked and colorfully frosted cupcakes from the oven, placing them on folded napkins over the table. Once again the phone started vibrating, and once again it was ignored.

”For-for the party?” he heard Dan's uncertainty clearly. ”That IS what you meant, right?”

“Daniel, there is a talking horse in my house!”

“Okay,” the discomfort in his voice even more apparent now. “You never call me that. Seriously, man, if you're that lonely you can just tell me, man. Hey, did you get the picture I sent you?”

“What?”

“The-the picture. The reply to your invitation thing?"

“What are you talking about?” Arin peered around the corner, studiously watching as Pinkie Pie lit candles. “What invitation?”

The phone began buzzing again, but Arin ignored it.

”Uh... for the party...? Hang on – you're really starting to freak me out, man, I'll be there in a minute.”

Dan's voice cut off with a swift click, giving Arin a moment to actually check why his phone had been ringing almost constantly.

“... Pinkie,” Arin poked his head back into the kitchen, not even questioning how or when the pony had the time to hang up painfully bright pink banners. “... Why does my phone say that I sent a picture of you holding up an invitation to almost everybody in my contacts list?”

“Because I sent invitations to almost everypony in your contacts list,” Pinkie replied without missing a beat.

“... These are from a minute ago,” Arin balked in doubt. “You were in here a minute ago.”

“Are you sure?” Pinkie dusted her hooves, smiling up at him.

“Don't screw around with me on this, horse,” he said through gritted teeth. “That's impossible.”

Pinkie scoffed once, cocking an eyebrow.

“Impossible is my middle name.”

“I thought you said your middle name was 'Diane'?”

Pinkie Pie laughed. Arin did not.

They stared at each other for a beat, neither of them saying a word.

“... Yeesh,” Pinkie cringed at his unflinching scowl. “I must be off the ball if you're this grumpy. I've got to cheer you up before the rest of your friends get here for the birthday party!”

“First of all,” Arin seethed, “It's not my birthday. Secondly, what?”

“What did you think I was sending out invitations for?” Pinkie Pie stared at him incredulously. “Seriously, how hard did you hit that door again?”

Arin couldn't quite respond properly, as he was preoccupied with panickedly mashing buttons, attempting to call literally everyone he knew at once.

“... Are you sure it's not your birthday?”

“Positive,” Arin muttered distractedly.

“Did I mention that my friends are coming, too?”

Oh, hey. The chest pain is back.

Author's Notes:

Just something written on a whim. Might do more, depending.