I get up for work on time and have leftover pizza for breakfast. I clean myself up, brush my teeth, gather up everything I like to carry around and begin my walk to work. Pearl and I arrive at the front door at the same time, both with a peaceful smile. Work follows through smoothly for the few lonely hours early in the day. Gourdy was already there and already had several pastries baked.

Pearl and I serve drinks and light breakfasts to early-rising, hard-worker ponies and all-nighter, procrastinating business ponies. The sun eventually started coming up and the traffic picked up. Stitches and Patches show up right on time for the breakfast rush and everything runs smoothly. Everypony’s in a very good mood.

I keep throwing smiles at Stitches while he cleans off tables. Occasionally he’ll smile back and we’d keep working. I remember thinking, nothing can go wrong with this day.

Lunch doesn’t get too busy, it usually never is on Mondays. I clock out and prepare to leave, but decide to stick around for a little while. Stitches is going on break soon, and maybe he’d like to share lunch with me. I take a seat at a table off to the side and wait for Pearl to take my order. I tell her I’m waiting for Stitches.

She asks me if he knew I was waiting for him.

I felt embarrassed. “Actually, probably not.” At that moment I had forgotten I planned to wait for him to come around and clean off a table nearby, but what if he didn’t? Of course he would. But…

“I’ll let him know,” Pearl smirks. While she turns I stop her and ask for a cup of hot water and a mint tea. She goes “Yep,” and trots to the next waiting table.

I get my tea before Stitches shows up. Just as I’m putting the fourth packet of sugar in, he sits down. “So what’s for lunch?” He asks, casually.

I smile, replying, “I don’t know. What do you want?”

“Are you buying?” He prods.

“I never said that.” I say, defensively. We laugh for a bit, and it was truly special. Then I suggest, “How about his new taco salad wrap?” Gourdy enjoyed experimenting with his foods. This one had all the fixings of crunchy taco, wrapped in a wheat tortilla. Neither of us had tried it yet, and it sounded pretty good to me.

“Hmm,” he considers the thought. “No thanks. I’m not really a fan of tacos.”

I scowl at him. “Well I’m getting one. You can order something more mainstream.”

He scoffs, “Since when is this restaurant mainstream?”

We laugh some more, then chat about current events. We talk about the new play at “my theater.” He brings up news from the school he’s going to, about how his psychology professor got married this weekend. I tell him to be ready for a homework assignment on “The Joys of Marriage.”

We order our food and keep talking. I tell him about book ideas I’ve had and he gives me more ideas about characters. His knowledge on psychology puts a lot into my mind about my characters, and I stop for a second to think about the things I’ve done to some of them that have developed them so fully.

Once we get our food we both eat in silence. I notice that we both like to eat rather quickly, barely taking pauses to breathe or drink. There isn’t much time to chat while our muzzles are stuffed. I fill up on my wrap first, and he’s still chowing down on his pot pie. I watch him eat and love the way he looks. I’ve taken a long look at him before, differentiating what I love and don’t. He’s got a combed-back mane style that he pulls off perfectly. His pinkish eyes and their gloss. I love how sturdy his shoulders are, and his all-around sturdy physique, right down to his firm glutes. Yet despite their firmness, they still look round and soft, complementing the blue-green, three-pointed star that was his cutie mark. His chest curves nicely with his body, flattening out to his fit abdomen. And his legs… I don’t really know, I just like them.

Back to his face; he has a bit of a habit of licking his lips a lot, and sometimes it bothers me, sometimes it just makes me laugh. His cheeks are a kind of flat, and he has bags under his eyes. That might just be today though. His jaw is sharp, and his chin is kind of pointed. Looking at him now, I don’t care that he looks exhausted, or that his cheekbones aren’t as high as mine; everything’s attractive. I can’t stop looking at him.

At last I have to say something, “I’m so happy to have this.”

He wipes gravy from the corner of his mouth and asks, “What?”

I smile. “Us.” When did I get so corny?

He smiles, but looks down. He frowns again, and I can tell he’s thinking hard. “I’m glad you’re happy,” he says, “and I’m happy to be your friend.” My smile dies suddenly. “I just… Our kiss was outstanding,” for a second I contemplate his word usage, then I realize what’s coming, “but I just don’t know if I’m ready for ‘us.’” He looks me in the eye with regret. For Kissing me, or for breaking it off? I can’t tell. “I thought I wanted… somepony like you. I still do, just… I don’t know if a stallion was the right choice.”

He’s going back on his feelings. Maybe he feels threatened by society, and doesn’t want to be gay? I feel like reassuring him, but I can’t find the words. Besides, what if that’s not it? What if he just isn’t gay? I have a hundred other theories at the same time, and he’s quiet while it sinks in. I want to ask him which of my ideas is true, why he’s cutting me off. Is it my fault? Did I ruin the sensation for him by coming on too strong? Did I misjudge him before, assuming he wanted me when he meant something else entirely? Did he only kiss me to humor me? Did he feel sorry for me?

Blaming myself, I have no reason to be mad, or even remotely upset, at him. I steel my emotions. “Ok,” I say.

“…Ok?” He begs.

“Yeah,” I assure, managing a kind grin. “Ok. I might not know why you’ve made this decision, but I’m ok with that. I don’t want to force you into a relationship you don’t want.”

He looks down again. “I never said I didn’t want it.”

It takes every ounce of my willpower not to explode. (What?) I know, calm down. (No! That’s basically exactly what he just said)

I ignore Aura, fearing that I might respond to him out loud and confuse my current conversation.

“I don’t know what I want,” Stitches continues, “and right now you’re my best friend. I don’t want to throw that away just to risk what could be a relationship.”

(But you wouldn’t risk one if we just had one!) Hush.

“I understand,” I tell him. I don’t know if it’s true, but I just want him to feel better already. Aura’s mentally screaming at me, but I continue to ignore him. “So, we’ll just keep being friends. That’s all we need.” (That is all we need. Just another friend.) I don’t need the sarcasm.

Stitches smiles at me. “Thanks,” he says.

I smile back, sympathetically. I want to break down, ask him all kinds of questions and insist he at least give “us” a chance. I don’t. I can’t give him that kind of stress.

I let him clean up and get back to work. I have to get ready to go back to Bridleway.

I’m sure you’ve noticed I don’t talk about my time at the theater a whole lot. Or, maybe you haven’t. I didn’t start early enough to do so. Well, I don’t like writing about my time at the theater, because it’s a lot of the same stuff. Sure every day is different in that the actors and directors always work on a different part of the play each day, but it always feels the same. The actors and actresses are always really demanding, the directors are even more so, and anypony there that’s paid to be there bosses me around like they own the place. I’m thinking that now that I’ve gotten a taste of show business I can give up on it. It obviously isn’t what I wanted, and I’m not just saying that because I’m a meaningless intern.

My dream is to write plays one day. From my experience, the playwrights have almost nothing to do with the production once it’s written. They and the directors edit the script together, and occasionally the playwright will show up to the stage during hell week and see if the play is what they envisioned. I can never tell if they’re satisfied, and often joked with myself that they do a better job acting than the ones on-stage.

In the end, I don’t know if I need to be there for the productions. I doubt I need this kind of experience in order to write the plays. I might quit.

Anyway, “Stallion of the Sea” happens to be almost exactly what I predicted, with most of the story happening in a mare’s dreams. In the end, she tragically kills herself to be with this imaginary stallion. Everypony’s going to love hearing about this tomorrow.