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The BouquetIt is a cloudless afternoon around the Carousel Boutique. A purple dragon, toting a bouquet of daisies, walks up to the front door.
Spike takes a breath of air for confidence, in anticipation of meeting his one and only and knocks at the purple door. To Spike's dismay, however, the door opens to reveal Sweetie Belle there to receive Spike instead.
"Hey, Sweetie Belle.", says Spike sheepishly.
"Oh. Hey, Spike.", says the filly.
"Is, uh, Rarity around?"
"She is.", Sweetie Belle replies. "But she's cooped up in her room dealing with a project for her client. She mentioned that she needs her full concentration and doesn't want to be disturbed."
Spike is disappointed by the news, but reaches out for any chance at seeing Rarity.
"Not even for her friends, or for me?"
"Not for a while, I'm afraid."
"I understand. That's just Rarity, I guess."
Spike let's out a sigh, but takes the bitter response regardless. He sits down at the doorstep. Sweetie Belle does the same, closing the front door behi
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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