She was near the end of the bar when I first saw her, perfectly placed in that strange space your eyes tend to skip over when surveying something. Not visible by being in the middle and the first thing you saw, not visible by being an outlier on the ends. In the play of my life, she was an extra. And yet, such a well-dressed extra, relatively speaking.

Hole-in-the-Wall was a dive. I liked it, but it was a dive. The sort of place that was perpetually grungy and a few steps short of being rundown because the clientele didn’t care about how it looked. The sort of place with tacky knick-knacks all over the walls. The sort of place that kept oil lamps (indoor oil lamps! Here, in Canterlot!) instead of light gems for “atmosphere”, and yet never bothered investing in fans that turned fast enough to dispel the smoke the lamps created. I suspected I’d grow quite fond of it soon.

I noticed her because of her dress. It was almost sparkly, a soft green. Maybe a little bit uptight for this sort of place, but nothing too eyebrow-raising. Coupled with her yellow coat, she resembled a corncob, half-stripped from its husk. The one thing breaking the illusion was her mane. Rather than the pale green of cornsilk, it was coppery that night.

I kept watching her because I didn’t recognize her face. That was surprising; I knew everypony else here by sight, although few by name. Not only was she new, she was alone. If you hadn’t come to Hole-in-the-Wall before, you wouldn’t come at all unless a friend escorted you in. The place looked too suspicious from the outside. Yet here she was, sitting like she’d always been here. Nopony seemed interested in her; this wasn’t a chummy place. Part of the reason I’d chosen it.

At first I thought her eyes were roving the menu, looking for something to drink or eat; she didn’t have anything in front of her. But her head was too low for that. I followed her gaze and met the mirror in the backbar. One way to inconspicuously watch everypony, I guessed. Watching because… I couldn’t guess.

I was here alone. She didn’t look lonely, but what the hay. Might as well try. I resolutely got up and wound my way around the tables, mumbling excuse mes and pardons as I slipped gracelessly through the maze. I dropped onto the stool next to her and almost cringed as I looked at myself in the mirror. I hadn’t gotten all the grease off myself from my construction job, my mane was incredibly frizzy, and my clothes were the strange mishmash that comes from reaching into a drawer and putting on the first things that come to hoof. A habit my ex had said drove her up the wall. I should’ve listened harder to her.

I expected her to reject me out of hoof. But you never know until you try. I cleared my throat and tried. “Hey.”

She turned to look at me, not at all surprised. She’d’ve seen me coming in the mirror, after all. “Hey.” That night, her eyes were a soft brown.

“I’m Cobblestone. Can I buy you a drink?” Might as well go direct.

“If you want. I don’t care what you get, so surprise me.” Her voice had a perfect middle-class Canterlot accent, clipped with a hint of softened R’s, just like mine. It was smooth the same way a river was smooth: it wasn’t flat, it had its ups and downs, but it flowed easily between ups and downs.

“Cool.” I can’t remember what I ordered, but it was cheap.

When our drinks came, she took a quick swig, glanced at the clock, twitched exaggeratedly. “Sorry,” she said quickly, “but I gotta go. Lost track of time.” She quickly slid off her stool and began making her way to the door. “Thanks for the drink, anyway.”

“That’s fine.” I was growing used to spending time alone, ever since those arguments with my friends over the past week. I looked at her glass. Still half-full. Four-fifths-full, even. Shame to waste it. I reached out to grab it-

A crash, like a table getting overturned. Everypony turned; the mare had collided with a stallion, a big one, just as she was leaving. She was lying in the floor, half-drenched in drinks from a nearby table; he was hanging awkwardly over a chair. As the stallion got to his hooves, I expected him to be the shouty, angry, gravelly-voiced kind. He surprised me with a soft Trottingham accent and a stutter. “Oh, Celestia, I, I, I am so sorry, th-that’s my fault, I, I wasn’t l-looking where I was going-”

The mare surprised me more with her own Trottingham accent and stutter. “N-no, I w-wasn’t paying attention either, i-it’s my fault, t-too.”

I thought I was hearing things. I wiggled a hoof in my ear as the stallion began gathering up scattered shot glasses and the conversation continued. “No, r-really, I should’ve b-been-”

“L-look, it’s b-both our faults, d-do you want s-some help?” Still the accent. Still the stutter.

The conversation dissolved into a haze as I watched the mare. The shift in her speech had escaped everypony else unnoticed. Then again, they hadn’t heard her speak with a Canterlot accent in the first place. So: why? What was up with her?

If my interest had been piqued before, it only climbed higher when the bouncer walked over to survey the damage. “ ’Ey. Somethin’ goin’ on? Take it outside.” She sounded like she ate gravel as an appetizer. I angled my ears toward the door before the mare could speak.

When she did, I was both surprised and unsurprised. “Nah. Ain’t nothin’ wrong here. Wasn’t looking. Hit ’im. My fault.” Not as hard as the bouncer’s, but still solid and brusque. Not something that should’ve come from a mare wearing that dress.

The bouncer, not around for the collision, didn’t notice the shift. The stallion, wrapped up in cleaning up, didn’t notice the shift. The bouncer left, the mess was gone, the stallion apologized profusely, the mare apologized profusely (back to the Trottingham accent), they both left.

It’s probably nothing, I told myself. She has a good reason for doing that. Maybe she’s an actress, testing her accents. Even if she’s not, it’s none of your darn beeswax.

And yet…

I looked back at her glass. Four-fifths-full. I looked at mine. Three-quarters-empty. I looked at the door. The choice took only seconds; I pushed a few bits at the bartender, mumbled to her to keep the change, and left the bar.