Page 82 of Glass Half Full
Plastic cup.
Plastic cup.
Plastic cup...
I setmy pen down on the table, massaging my temples and staring at the words I’ve scribbled down until the letters start to blur. I’ve been trying to write this poem for almost an hour, and all I can do is repeat the same line over and over again.
The next one won’t come. It’s there. I can feel it lodged in my throat, holding my breaths captive until I give it a voice, but every time I try to speak, I choke. The words twist themselves around my tongue.
Plastic cup.
Plastic cup.
Plastic
Cup...
I flip my notebook closed with enough flair to make my drama queen of a best friend proud and glance around the coffee shop. Most of the people who were here when I arrived have already left. I’ve watched them come and go through the door, my head jerking up at the tinkle of the bell every time. My favourite table—the one in the corner with the comfy benches—is empty now.
I could move over there, but instead I stare at the vacant seats and the glossy table top still ringed with coffee stains from the couple who just left. I watched them over the rim of my chai latte while they sat there, stealing glances in between sips and doodling patterns in the margins of my notebook.
They didn’t look anything like Dylan and I. He was blond and skinny, and she had long red hair tied back in a French braid that even a full can of hairspray wouldn’t have kept my frizz from escaping, but something about the sight of two people sitting at the table, holding hands and sharing those we’re-totally-thinking-the-exact-same-thing-right-now smiles while gazing into each other’s eyes, made my stomach lurch and my grip tighten around my mug.
That’sourtable. That’s wherewesit and hold hands and smile at each other with big dumb googly eyes.
It doesn’t matter if we won’t ever sit there again. It doesn’t matter that it’s been almost two weeks, and I’ve heard nothing from him. That table is still ours.
“Time to go,” I mutter under my breath as I toss my notebook into my bag.
I thought coming back to this cafe would clear my head, show me that I’m moving on, that I can go to the places we went and do the things we did and not feel the constant lack of him in my life.
“I know I’m okay without him,” I told my therapist yesterday. “I wouldn’t want a relationship where I neededsomeone else just to feel okay. I don’tneedhim. I just want him. I still want him so much.”
Enough to be getting territorial about a damn table, apparently.
My chai latte is ice cold by now, but I throw back the last spicy sip and hand the mug to a barista gathering dishes off the table beside me. I zip my coat up and pull on my gloves before heading out into the early November chill.
I start walking without a destination in mind. My back is stiff from being hunched over my notebook for so long, and it feels good to stretch out. I pass by a pub with a ‘We’re Hiring’ sign in the window and stop to read the details. They’re typed out in French with English underneath:
Looking for experienced servers and bartenders.
Full or part time.
Send resume in person or by email.
I’ve only just got my bank account nicely padded with my pay from Taverne Toulouse. If I spend another few weeks pretending to write while fueling myself with lattes and overpriced paninis from downtown cafes, I’m going to be back where I started.
I pull my phone out and take a picture of the sign.
Onwards and upwards.
The thought of working at a bar that isn’tTaverne Toulouse doesn’t feel like moving up. It feels likegivingup—giving up friends who were becoming something close to family, giving up a place that was becoming something like a home.
Maybe that’s what starts leading me down Avenue Mont-Royal. I don’t realize where my feet are taking me until the familiar metal sign with the bar’s name spelt out in typewriter font comes into view, swaying in the chilly breeze. The windows show a dark and empty bar when I come to stand in front of them; I got an early start at the cafe this morning, and it’s only just past 11AM.
I’ve moved so close I’ve almost got my face against the glass, gazing at chairs and couches clustered in arrangements I have memorized, when the sound of my name makes me jump back.
“Renee!” DeeDee repeats. “Choufleur, I missed you! Come give Mamma DeeDee a hug.”
