A Bed in the Teacup

Coming inside from the rosemary patch as night settled, I wandered toward the hearth where the tiles held a faint, soothing warmth. Beside a folded wool blanket rested an empty, wide porcelain teacup without a saucer. A plush, round cotton makeup puff lay beside it on the slate. Pausing to examine its puffy white rim, I gently leaned forward and pressed both dark hooves against it. It yielded with a soft squish, sliding smoothly across the stone until it dropped neatly into the teacup's bowl. It puffed back up, lining the porcelain like a tiny, cushioned mattress. Tucking my hooves close underneath me, I rested my chin against the cool glazed lip.