You are Anon, bartender by trade, on a slow afternoon. You serve the good stuff, hot chocolate with the tiniest marshmallows, eggnog, all kinds of milkshakes, and so on. Naturally, you hear all the sob stories. Husband ran away for five minutes. Being low horse in the herd pile. Tripped and skinned a knee. Forgot to bring food to a potluck.
You dole out pats and reassurances carefully, you are here to help them forget, not develop a dependency. Speaking of which, here comes one of your regulars. Princess Sparkle pulls up a stool, her wings drooping low.

"The usual?"

She nods. You pour a tall glass of milk and set out a plate of homemade Oreos. Pinkie Pie is a good supplier. An Oreo rises, dunks, then disappears into the little pony's mouth. You wait, idly wiping a glass with a cleaning rag. By the third cookie, her head is propped up on her hoof, and she is sighing.

"You know, they say stallions like a confident mare."

You hum an acknowledgement.

"But then there are mares that don't take no for an answer. Who don't notice when they're making the guy uncomfortable."

Lyra.

"Have to have balance. Moderation and all that."

She nods.

"See, I have seen too many mares of the second type, and I try not to be like that. I try so hard, that I just do nothing."
You're going to have to cut her off after this plate, you can tell. You set down your glass and switch to wiping the counter. Twilight laughs, a sad, bitter thing.

"I end up just helping them. Helping everypony. I like it too, but it's all I can do. Can't build on it. Can't recognize the signals."

She knocks back the rest of the milk, swaying on the stool. Probably drank some soda before she got here. You still find it kinda weird how sugars and fats affect these horses in different ways. You make your way around the counter as Twilight sets the glass down and lays her head on her crossed forehooves. Her eyes droop as the milk hits.

" 'm jus' the princess a frenship. 'sall."

You wait for her to fall completely asleep, then pick her up. She's warm in your arms as you make your way over to the nap corner. You lay her in a cot and draw the blanket up to her chin. You look around the empty bar, then pull a chair next to her and sit down. You stroke her mane, and murmur softly.

"You're a good pony. Who's a good pony? You are."

After a few repetitions, you are rewarded with a smile on her sleeping face. Your employer had been uncertain about having a male Bartender. Said the mares would try to take advantage of you, hit on you. Admittedly, some did. More often though, they just needed someone to talk to, who wouldn't tell them they were weak.

Times like these, you're glad you can be there for them. The bar is silent and warm, no street sounds, no yelling. Just two lonely souls, breathing deep and slow.