Free Time and Opportunities [Open]

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She looked to the side as they walked. On the patio of some fancy restaurant, a stallion was chatting with a mare, his tone as stuffed-up as a fresh doughnut hemorrhaging glistening jelly soaking up powdered sugar, his spoon glowing with a regal-purple hornglow as it was about to shovel tiramisu into his mouth as he spoke. As they passed, he went silent. He glanced their way. The mare glanced their way then gave him a scathing look. Synth simply did not have this effect on ponies. Like most emotions, the tinge of jealousy the scent of burning flowers never made it to her face, but not only for the fact that she was ... well, her. It was because something else was there, a cool breeze in her mind diverting the odor. Something about the circumstance eased her as quick as it stung her, and she looked to her other side to Fleur. The seeming easy confidence ... Fleur was like another she had met: established, the rhythm of her character marching forward. She was beautiful in the sun. It was not a thought that gave Synth herself much joy, but it was not a framing that she would ever enjoy, but perhaps she was not meant to, and recognition under the moon's light was different than the sun's. "I ... have not been approached. Not ... in a spectacular way or ... en masse. If there is ... appreciation, it is ... different for what I do. Being sought after ... it's a rare ... thing. It's rime from within a dream that shares its beauty and impossible warmth. When music is played in the dark ... I suppose public and personal ... those realms bump haphazardly as the dancers do. If that ... makes sense?" She wanted it to make sense, but had she just been obtuse? Just a bit of her drowsiness came back as weight on her heart tumbling down from her mind like burlap sacks of soaked flour. She looked to Fleur directly, hoping for a hopeful expression to appear on her face and cross the distance between them. They rounded a corner to a narrower and yet still dignified and airy street. Here, smaller art galleries were situated, representing dozens of artists hoping to attract the fanciest clientele that would one day give them the prestige to have a gallery along the main boulevard. They walked by a bronze of an impossibly thin mare holding a pair of stringy Pegasus foals. Their bodies were unnerving as if from a dream, the metal making them seem the subject of a cruel spell, but their wings were coated and torched to be sky-blue and vast. The statue tugged at her, and words beckoned for her attention. "D-Do you like art, Miss Fleur? Or..."

[Fleur de Lis]

Fleur continued walking as she pondered about what Miss Pop said. ''Public and personal realms bumping with one another...''Fleur took a moment before continuing her thought. ''They are without a doubt connected as soon as you decide to enter the public scene; no matter if it is small scale or not. If I understood well, you think that even though you are not sought after, when you play your music, it feels as if you are connected to your public?''

Fleur was not completely confident on her interpretation, but she supposed that she at least understood partly what the mare had meant. It was like trying to decipher a poem; you could have your own interpretation, but the writer could have meant a totally different thing.

As they passed the statue. She did not pay any mind, since she had often seen it, but she realized that Miss Pop was looking rather intently at it, which to Fleur looked as if the mare was a tourist.

"D-Do you like art, Miss Fleur? Or..."

Who does not?, Fleur thought. So many things can be considered art; it all depends on the pony who views it. I suppose she must have meant visual arts.

Fleur smiled and answered:''I suppose I do have a soft spot for sculptures and paintings. I might not be a true 'connaisseuse', but I do enjoy them nonetheless. I, myself, do paint once in a while. It is one of my favorite hobbies. What about you my dear? I see you find this statue to be rather interesting.''

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''Public and personal realms bumping with one another ... They are without a doubt connected as soon as you decide to enter the public scene; no matter if it is small scale or not. If I understood well, you think that even though you are not sought after, when you play your music, it feels as if you are connected to your public?'' “I … do not believe the dancers see me or each other as ponies during a performance … not exactly. The event is public, and yet … not. They do not know each other’s names. Makeup hides the face. The event is personal, I suppose … in the sense that it becomes a conversation of forces. I convert electricity into sound, they convert sound into motion, heat. Each flail of a hoof … each drop of sweat … each straining breath … morphemes. By the end of a song, each of them have made a statement. I am … just a part of a process. Anonymous, I suppose … silent witness to souls laid bare on floodlight – lit floor panels.” ''I suppose I do have a soft spot for sculptures and paintings. I might not be a true 'connaisseuse', but I do enjoy them nonetheless. I, myself, do paint once in a while. It is one of my favorite hobbies. What about you my dear? I see you find this statue to be rather interesting.'' Synth looked at the statue. Abstractions raised banners in her mind. Form. Function. Identity. Recognition. Gleaming. Dreary. Her eyes followed the contours of something made from a burning mold and poured metal. She imagined the eyes of the pony that made it scrutinizing every angle, even as an industrial sour smoke stung at them. Will. Effort. Witness. She looked to Fleur and breathed deeply. And what of the art Fleur made of herself out of chance and actions? What was it like to be art made aware? Synth could not relate. Her real eyes were made of tint and plastic. “The process is … compelling. As much as the product, if not more. I … prefer to make glass lately. Pigments, rocks, wood, fibers … then along comes a pony with something to show. I … apologize for slowing us down, Miss Fleur. Sometime, perhaps … it would be lovely to see an image you have painted.” Synth gave the distorted eyes of the statue a look, then to Fleur a polite nod, and then began towards the Windigo, minutes away.

[Fleur de Lis]

Fleur was disappointed that the mare would not work more to get herself be known, to give herself a name to be remembered. What is the point of making music and playing to others if you do not even try to make it popular enough so that more ponies could enjoy it?, she asked herself. Moreover, it is her job! It simply does not make sense. Does she not care about her future?

''I … apologize for slowing us down, Miss Fleur.''

Fleur laughed softly to reassure the mare. ''Please, do not worry about that, my dear. Seeking and admiring beauty is never a waste of time in itself. Too many ponies fail to really take enough time to expose themselves to it.''

''Sometime, perhaps … it would be lovely to see an image you have painted.''

Fleur was about to answer flippantly, but then considered that she should not jump to conclusions first. So many times she has heard that expressed desire to see her paintings, but she was not naive; most of the time she could see the intentions behind that statement. As if I would let anypony in my house that easily, she thought.

'' Yes, perhaps one day I could show you a few of them. Though I must say that they are not as beautiful as those we get to see at exhibitions.''

As she walked, Fleur decided not to believe that the mare was trying to invite herself at her house. She simply does not look like that type of pony, thankfully. The last thing I need right now is another overconfident, clinging, and self-proclaimed suitor.

''The sentiment is shared, my dear; I would also love to have the chance to hear some of your own compositions. Perhaps I could even attend to one of your 'shows'.'' I hope I will not regret saying that, Fleur thought. Listening to her music would be lovely, but actually going to such a place is something else entirely.

After a little while, she spotted the sign of the Windigo. ''Ah, it would like we are finally reaching the coffeehouse... I cannot wait to see how it looks like, especially inside.'' Fleur then smiled warmly. ''I suppose you must be quite eager to finally have the opportunity to get yourself a coffee.''

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“It would be a pleasure. Tuedays … they are not terribly populated, but they can be more comfortable. I also play every other Thursday, but I would advise against going to the Rivet Horn on those nights. The ambiance is … at times … a strange sort of hostile. You should know that the scene can be rather unexpected, but … I doubt you will find a more evocative place or … music … at least outside of the symphony hall.” Synth yawned, stopping to raise a hoof to her mouth and to adjust her sunglasses. “I am … eager for that coffee. It seems … my body will not allow me to forget.” They approached a long building with three entrances in each segment of the coffeehouse. The exterior was brick painted over in a pale vanilla, clashing somewhat with the soft off-whites and violets of the majority of Canterlot’s buildings. Also outside, several sets of cushioned, unpainted wrought-iron seats were scooted into iron tables with glass tops, mineral stained by the years and dustily stained by the ash of thousands of cigarettes and pinches of burnt pipe tobacco. Ashtrays of indigo-painted clay pointed upwards like broken seashells. A few ponies sat in front, one by the door playing something practiced and classical paid them little mind beyond a nod as they passed on their way towards the Windigo’s main door, guitar-case revealing a dozen tossed-in bits. Synth walked ahead, up a bending diamond-plate ramp, and opened the door for Fleur, opening the way for the sounds of fiddles to reach outside. Inside, a pony waited at a counter with a tip jar and a carousel of fruit muffins. Behind the pony, an espresso machine hissed with steam and a gramophone on low volume played a bouncing, humored jazz. The smell of simmering tomato sauce and roasting coffee beans won out over the grainy smell of smoke and saturated wood of the tables and furniture. Near the counter, a trio of counches and scattered chairs of all different colors, fabrics, and construction faced a small stage by an aquarium and a shelf of audio equipment. A single stage light was pointed at the fiddler, their shadow dancer behind on the white wall cutting into the instrument. Some ponies watched the fiddler intently while others played board games and read from one of Canterlot’s night-life newspapers, the Night Eye. “Here … is the Windigo. This is the main room, but … the second room is more quiet. The third room is … the smoking room.”

[Fleur de Lis]

I ought to make a mental note about avoiding the place on Thursdays, she thought. Being in a hostile environment? I'll pass. And if it is only a little calmer on Tuesday, then it ought to be quite something as well. I do not trust this. And to say that I would not easily find another place with music as evocative? Fleur laughed inwardly at the boast. A valuable attempt to promote her music, but then it is far from being the first time that I hear such a claim. Though if I were to find other ponies who do share the sentiment...

As Fleur caught sight of the building, she recognized it by the casual description other ponies had given her over the last few months. She smiled a little upon seeing that there was a seating zone outside the coffeehouse, and that there were already musicians busy at giving the place a pleasant ambiance. Fleur focused on the quality of the sounds, and maintained her soft smile. Very decent music, although they ought to choose their musicians more carefully. Well, she corrected herself, if the establishment does not really have that good of a reputation then that can be expected. Fleur returned the nods and paid little more attention to them.

She smiled as Miss Pop opened the door for her. “Thank you, my dear.'' She was used to the gesture, but then it always pleased her that others knew their manners. Or that they simply were being kind to her. It further pleased her to know that the mare had thought about it even though she almost was dead tired. Remarkable, Fleur thought approvingly, and then stepped inside.

“Here … is the Windigo. This is the main room, but … the second room is more quiet. The third room is … the smoking room.”

Fleur looked around and payed attention to the decorations, the ponies seated, the staff, and the furniture. She closed her eyes an instant as she took in the fragrance. While tomato sauce was not her favorite, it did not bother her too much. Thankfully both Miss Pop's coffee and her own tea will be enough to at least partially cover it. “Not quite the same music genre as the one outside, but quite enjoyable as well. I would rather we stay clear of the third room then; I would dislike if I were to smell of cigarette later on. If you do smoke, Miss Pop, then I would rather we take our drink outside, if you do not see there an inconvenience. Otherwise, any of the two other rooms would suit me, but then I do suppose a livelier environment would help you stay awake.” She smiled. “I do want to avoid talking over coffee with a slumbering mare if I can.”

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Synth Pop noticed a pause, enough of an open window that despite the usualness of the place, details leaked out from the general sense of the place, yet in her drowsiness, it was not the details that she clung to in that moment, but their ripples through her attitudes. The mild jazz that came out through the black-painted iron mesh of a single buzzy speaker near the cashier’s counter scratched at her thinking, the sound as dusty as the record. Voices meshed into an incoherent din. So much talking, and yet how many things being said held weight? The babbling made her feel like she was on a wobbling raft somewhere synthetic and isolated, a half-globe made of plastic held in an unknown dark, a place that could only exist in dream. She blinked away the world of discordant, wobbling bass notes amidst whining, sinewy twangs growing in her ear and looked to Fleur, whose composure seemed … precise. Perhaps her thoughts were sharp and focused. If so, what were her observations about Synth? “Not quite the same music genre as the one outside, but quite enjoyable as well. I would rather we stay clear of the third room then; I would dislike if I were to smell of cigarette later on. If you do smoke, Miss Pop, then I would rather we take our drink outside, if you do not see there an inconvenience. Otherwise, any of the two other rooms would suit me, but then I do suppose a livelier environment would help you stay awake.” Fleur gave a smile like the serif at the last stroke of a calligraphic line, the kind of art that gives birth to only more art. Synth, finally catching the oily, slightly spicy odor of coffee found in it one last jolt to get her and her thoughts standing straight and alert. Soon, the coffee itself would hold her to a frame, and she would not look lazy sitting and talking with Fleur. Synth tried to smile, though of course her face stubbornly refused to show it as usual. She was not an interesting mare, perhaps, but she could at least maintain consciousness and a peaceful conversation. “I do want to avoid talking over coffee with a slumbering mare if I can.” “I … do not believe coffee will fail. I am rather … sensitive to it. A booth in the middle room … enough pleasant sound … distant enough … it will not be intrusive.” Synth approached the counter, but did not rush it, looking to Fleur, lower-watt light highlighting the dreary grey of her sunglasses.

[Fleur de Lis]

“A booth in the middle room … enough pleasant sound … distant enough … it will not be intrusive.”

“Maginifique,” Fleur said, “it would have been unpleasant to constantly being required to raise our voices in order to hear each other. Sometimes some establishments seem to oversee this tiring aspect.”

Fleur approached the counter as well, and without thinking about it, casually rearranged her mane with her magic. She could not help but smile a little at the sensation; it was always pleasing for her to know that even at a small coffeehouse, she would not dare neglect her appearance. The familiar, soothing feeling of her mane being lightly brushed also contributed to the soft smile.

As she approached, Fleur realized that Miss Pop was staring at her, or at least in her general direction for all she knew because of the mare's imposing, heavily-tinted sunglasses. Fleur raised an eyebrow and casually told her: “I am certain you have already noticed, my dear, but the lighting is already quite dim in here. Surely it would be better for your eyesight if you were to remove your sunglasses, non? But then you do so once at the table, there is no rush; it might be difficult for you to hold them and your cup at the same time.... Although I suppose I could carry them, or the cup, for you.”

It was not an habit of her to carry objects around for other ponies; it was usually the other way around, but then since the mare was not a Unicorn, Fleur supposed that it was the least she could do for her.

Fleur decided that the waiter had probably waited long enough, so she smiled at him pleasantly and said with a wink: “Oui, I shall take a simple café au lait, without sugar, s'il vous plaît.” I could have chosen a more elaborate coffee, Fleur thought, but then until I hear more favorable critics from the place, I ought to be careful.

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Synth watched as Fleur’s magic bright a slight glow to the air around her horn and around her mane, color condensing and sharpening into the faint shapes of brush tines. The brush travelled down the length of her mane with slow, practiced, and delicate strokes, as if wielded by the most dedicated or timid maid from the Palace just miles away. The tall mare’s expression was a smile, too soft to be knowing, too certain to be soft. Perhaps it was the appearance of a pony content in their appearance, and Synth couldn’t help but feel herself thinking the question, if I were so beautiful, wouldn’t I look like this? The magic comb fashioned the bottom of Fleur’s mane into the softest curl, not a single hair poking out of place, then she looked to Synth. She had been staring and only in that instant realized it. “I am certain you have already noticed, my dear, but the lighting is already quite dim in here. Surely it would be better for your eyesight if you were to remove your sunglasses, non? But then you do so once at the table, there is no rush; it might be difficult for you to hold them and your cup at the same time.... Although I suppose I could carry them, or the cup, for you.” For a moment, Synth could simply not respond, though she had run into this problem many times before. She wanted to keep her sunglasses on. She had to keep her sunglasses on. Of course, she had tried to explain it in a rational manner, telling others that she believed that eyes were private and personal. She didn’t like to lie, but once, she had even claimed to be half Bat Pony and that her eyes were very sensitive to light. Nothing really worked to keep other ponies from giving her a strange look. It was just too bizarre to spend every public moment in sunglasses, it seemed. At this point, she would have to take them off, and then everypony, especially Fleur, would see right through her, her thoughts laid bare for all to see. But … there was time. Fleur had given her time. Fleur must have noticed the stallion’s gaze from the counter, and she turned. “Oui, I shall take a simple café au lait, without sugar, s'il vous plaît.” Synth stepped forward, taking her first breath in the better part of a minute. “And … I will have a … a l-latte … three shots … l-light roast … only one-hundred forty degrees steamed … if … if I may.” If she had to have something with coffee, she preferred the smoothness and subtle milky sweetness of a latte. “And … if-f it is not much in the way of … trouble … I w-would be grateful if you carried the cup … I can put these … s-sunglasses down on the table when … when we get there.” The sunglasses were on her face, yet she could already feel the chill of them leaving her. Everything would be brought into bright color, and then Fleur would see her eyes. Everypony would.