Page 37 of Glass Half Full
A secret, a solution, a compliment, a cause
And sometimes
You tip that bottle back
And find exactly what you need.”
The room explodes with sound the second I finish. People clap and stomp their feet. A few of them snap, and a few others look like they’re wondering if they should be snapping too.
I don’t care what they do just as long as they’re reacting. That’s what makes spoken word come alive: the reaction. It’s what turns a room into something more than just a space. It’s what makes the air crackle and spark like it’s laced with an explosive current. It’s what strips away the masks, the layers, all the bullshit walls we put up to get through the day and let’s people live, reallylive, and not give a fuck about asking permission to be who they are.
I nod to the crowd but I don’t say thank you. I always make a point of letting my poems speak for themselves. I don’t make a speech about the piece and what it means to me; the words of the poem do that. I don’t tell the people listening how much I appreciate them; I let the passion, the effort and honesty I put into my performance tell them how much of a gift it is to have them witness it. I’m high off the rush of it all, pumped enough that I feel like I could back flip off the stage.
For the safety of the people in the front row, I resist the urge.
I scan the still applauding crowd one last time, and that’s when I see her. The stage light is bright enough that the people in the first few rows are cast in shadow, but still, I don’t know how I missed her.
She always wears dark colours to work—understated, professional looking things even though we don’t have an official dress code.
Tonight, she’s wearing white.
It’s not a dress, but the flowy white top she’s got on, one with thin straps that leave her arms and shoulders bare, still takes me right back to that night three years ago when she stood outside a metro station wearing a white dress. She’s weaved her way into my memories. She carved a spot for herself in my life long before she showed up to fill it.
The high that’s been seeping into my veins since I got up on stage is cut off in an instant, like someone’s ripped an IV drip out of my arm, and as the chemicals drain from my bloodstream, I see it clearer than I ever have before.
This isn’t just some inconvenient workplace crush. This isn’t some blast from the past I’ll get over.
Iwanther—the girl I was never supposed to start wanting in the first place.
I’m not going to stop wanting her.
I could crush these feelings to dust in my hand, and they’d still be imprinted in every curve and crease of my palms. This isn’t going away.
“Keep it going for Dylan!”
Zach climbs onto the stage and claps me on the shoulder as the crowd continues to cheer. The sound is just a dull rush in my ears now; I’m not contemplating back flips anymore. I make my way to the bar, somehow managing to return the smiles and nod at the whispers of ‘You did great!’ Up on stage, Zach makes a few more jokes and introduces our DJ for the night.
I’m considering asking DeeDee for a drink by the time everyone starts to mingle again. I was planning on staying sober tonight so I’d be ready to handle any work-related incidents that might come up, but I doubt I’m at my most useful in this state. A can of beer to take the edge off might actually be in everyone’s best interest.
I’m just about to see if I can get her attention when a white shirt and tangle of hair escaping its ponytail whips by me.
“Is she okay?”
Renee’s back disappears in the crowd for a moment as Monroe steps up beside me, standing on her tiptoes and shouting up at me to make herself heard.
“Renee, I mean. I was going to introduce her to Julien, but she took off before I could get to her. She looked upset.”
“Upset?”
Monroe doesn’t have a hope, but I’m tall enough to crane my neck and spot Renee again just as she breaks free of the throng of people around the bar and heads down the hall to the back of house. I don’t get a glimpse of her face, but she’s moving fast, and she’s got no reason to be in the back tonight—other than escaping all this.
“Do you think someone should check on her?” Monroe asks.
“I’ll, uh, go.”
It might not be the best idea, but Monroe is one of the most discerning people I know, and if I stand here speculating with her about Renee, she’s going to be able to tell something is up with me.
I don’t even know what’s up with me, but I doubt that will stop Monroe from figuring it out.
