Page 28 of Glass Half Full
Things wouldn’t be different. We wouldn’t be going on dates. I wouldn’t be his girlfriend. I’m not in a fit state to be anyone’s girlfriend at the moment, least of all his. He’s Dylan Trottard, for god’s sake: award winning spoken word artist, kitchen manager at one of the coolest bars in the city, ubiquitously admired human being. He has his shit together.
To put it crudely, I don’t even know where my shit is, never mind how to get it all together.
“Do you want to get those two?”
DeeDee’s questions snaps me back to reality, and I turn to find her nodding toward a couple walking up to the bar.
“Oh, sure.”
I take a few deep breaths as subtly as I can before approaching the customers. They order in French, asking for two pints of our special beer of the month. The woman asks a few questions about the flavour first, and I can practically feel DeeDee nodding in approval as I answer using the description she taught me.
“C’était parfait!” DeeDee congratulates me once I’ve served the beers. “You were perfect. If they don’t give you a big tip for that, I’ll give you one myself.”
I slap the hand she holds up for a high five. Things start picking up after that. Most of the tables fill with customers, and we spend our time getting drink orders done for the servers while handling the people who sit at the bar. DeeDee and I have something of a rhythm now, weaving around each other in a bartender’s dance as we grab the bottles and glasses we need. I’m starting to adopt her ability to do two or three things at once.
We’ve got the ‘official playlist’ on again, but I still recognize most of the songs.
“Who made this?” I ask DeeDee during a moment we’re both at the taps. I jerk my head toward the sound system so she’ll know what I’m talking about.
“That would be Dylan. Thatmectakes his music so fucking seriously. If anyone touches the speakers in the kitchen, he chops their fingers off.”
“It’s a good mix,” I can’t help commenting, even as I strain myself to sound casual.
“The best.” She nods in agreement. “He should be a DJ or something.”
I think back to the almost nightly ‘radio shows’ he starts our shifts with. He hams it up as much as he can, but it doesn’t disguise the fact that he has talent. His voice was made to make people listen. It reels you in, coaxes you forward like someone calling your name from the other side of a finish line. Combined with his ability to pick just the right songs for just the right occasion, he’d be the perfect radio host.
DeeDee takes off to deliver the beers she’s poured, and things pick up enough that we don’t get another chance to talk for a solid half hour. She slides up beside me at the cash register once we’ve reached a temporary lull in the influx of customers.
“Is that right?” I ask when I notice her side-eyeing what I’m doing on the screen.
“You got it, girl.” She starts punching something in herself when I’m done. “So, you knew Dylan before this,non?”
“Huh?” My response comes out way too high-pitched.
“I was gonna ask you earlier, but I forgot. You met him before you worked here, right?”
“Oh, yeah.” I get my vocal cords back under control. “He told you about me doing the slams and stuff, I guess?”
Her eyebrows shoot up with excitement. “You do the slams? He didn’t tell me that. I just guessed you knew him. That is so dope,chérie!The slams are awesome. I can’t wait to see you at the next one.”
“Oh, yeah.” I squirm a little from the discomfort that comes with talking about my poetry these days. “I’m kind of, uh, on a break from that at the moment.”
Her excitement dulls, but she doesn’t push the subject. “So you did poetry together. That’s so cool! I thought maybe...” She trails off and lets out one of her signature husky laughs.
“What?” I prod when she just keeps chuckling to herself.
“I just thought maybe you had a little bit of”—she pauses and wiggles her fingers at me—“history, if you know what I mean.”
I’m sure my face turns as white as it’s possible for my skin to go. “Oh, no. No, no, no. Nothing like that. I mean, I was a teenager when I met him, and I’ve been away for three years. We didn’t even know each other very well to begin with.”
“I see,” she practically purrs.
“He’s my manager. This is my job.”
That seems to strike a chord somewhere with her, and the playfulness slips out of her expression.
“I know,ma belle. Excusez-moi. Sometimes I’m a little too...interested? Does that make sense? English is weird.”
