Stepping out into the Manehattan city street that was bustling with activity and bursting with dim colours of grey and sepia, Russet Draft pulled his collar up closer to his neck and shivered. The cold autumn chill burrowed into his skin and nipped at his ear tips--he hated this time of year. Ever since he was a boy all of the worst experiences in his life had happened around now: the death of his father, first failed novel, the loss of his first love and the time he had woken up in an alleyway, drunk and disorientated. Those times had long passed, however, leaving him with nothing but bitter memories...

Memories. Fat lot of good those did for him. They hung on the edge of his senses, waiting until the opportune moment when he was just on the brink of actually enjoying himself to sneak up on their prey and bite into his consciousness like a rabid dog, bringing back feelings of hurt, loss, and sadness like the dog who drew blood. Blood that would seep out of its wound and pour onto the ground below.

The stallion sighed and shook his head, refocusing on reality. With a short gaze around at his surroundings to get his bearings, he realized he had found himself on Forty-Second Street, which was two whole blocks in the wrong direction to his destination. Another pesky interview with some washed up journalist trying to get his big break.

Cursing his wandering mind, and all the wasted time he’d spent dwelling deep within it, Russet thanked the Gods that he at least had the time to dawdle due to the lack of urgency this appointment required. Besides, he thought with a grim smirk, as an author, being fashionably late only added to the mysteriousness of his persona. It was almost laughable what ponies were willing to believe sometimes.

Stepping into a familiar coffee shop at a convenient location that faced a wide and sunny park, the stallion quickly ordered a latte and sat down in a dim corner, engrossed in his thoughts. Bitterly, he thought back to happy times when the cantankerous writer had a happier outlook on life. When had things gone so wrong?

A wrinkly, middle-aged and tired looking mare with tortoiseshell glasses and a fake pearl necklace served him his coffee, and he gave her an embittered ‘thank-you’. She hesitated a moment, as if waiting for a tip, then walked away muttering something under her breath. He didn’t tip, of course, as it was bad for the economy.

A few tables over, a couple of young teenagers were whispering amongst each other and glancing back in his direction. They caught his unimpressed look and immediately slunk in their seats, embarrassed. More doting fans, of course. In the beginning Russet basked in their fawning attention, writing autographs until it hurt. It felt good to be in the spotlight, loved by scores of similar fans, but the popularity quickly got tiring, the autographs tedious, and time spent indulging fans just to sell another copy got repetitive. It was the same thing every time.

Nowadays, Russet Draft avoided fans outside of ‘required mingling’ at the signing events that his publishers absolutely insisted on. Good for his image, they said. Russet would rather stay home. Those crowded halls and bookstores made him queasy. It was something he’d never quite gotten used to. Wanting to avoid further attention, he hid behind his collar.

The stallion took in the familiar shop as he sipped his coffee in peace. This place was one he’d been to many times. It was nothing pretty; walls were peeling and ceiling tiles yellowed with age, lights flickered dimly, the bathrooms hadn’t been cleaned in years, and if you waited long enough a bug or a rodent of some kind would scuddle buy. No one famous would be caught dead in such a place, but Russet liked it. He would almost never find himself swarmed by fans or trapped in a dry conversation with some college kid who wanted to be just like him. Russet reflexively rolled his eyes.

It was true that fame wasn’t really what it was supposed to be. It was three years ago that Russet Draft published his first book, after years of laboring over quill and paper in a cold apartment, under candlelight because the power had gone out weeks prior, but he never felt like he had fallen on hard luck. It was ironic that now, having discovered fame and earned thousands of bits in the process, that it was those old times that he missed the most.

It was those years he thought about when he was lying awake at night. In that little cramped apartment, living off of portioned food, cheap coffee, and a box for a dining room table. Somehow, despite all of the suffering, back then there was more than he had now. Writing had always been his dream and his passion, and now that he’d made a life doing it, why wasn’t he happy?

Russet Draft shook his head, clearing those old thoughts from memory. He didn’t want to think about it now. He didn’t want to think of her. He drained the remaining coffee with a heavy sigh, relishing in how it slid down his throat with ease. Coffee was the one constant in his life. No matter how rich, poor, famous or miserable he was, he could always rely on Coffee. That was something, at least.

His waitress gave him a sideways glance as she trotted by, indicating that she had no intention of refilling his cup. Russet couldn’t help but crack a smile. If there was one thing Manehattan was good for, it was forgetting you were a celebrity long enough to spit in your coffee just like everyone else. That, too, was something you could rely on. For a moment, he thought more about things that had stayed the same his whole life, but came up with little else.

Coffee and Manehattan, that’s what it boiled down to; one was often bitter, comfortably warm for short periods of time, uncomfortably hot and disgustingly cold for the rest; the other was coffee.

His strangely positive demeanor didn’t last long, as thoughts turns to things that he had lost, instead. Memories flooded back even when he didn’t want them to, poisoning him with more grief and bitterness. He’d given away so much to get to where he was at now. He fought to be the pony he was now, but he’d give it all away if he could.

Just to be with her again.

Hooves shaking, he reached for his cup only to knock it off the table, sending it crashing to the floor. The waitress heaved a heavy sigh and the kids whispered again; but nothing stopped the stallion from leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes, shutting the outside world away as his heart sank. He began to look back, already wishing he hadn’t.