Page 84 of Glass Half Full
She grabs her beer and downs a few more sips.
“And at first I thought it was so weird for him to be like that, now that...” She trails off and waves her hand to indicate my general existence. “Now that you’re gone.”
I wait for the rest of the story, toes tapping the bottom rung of my bar stool. There’s no point pretending I don’t care; I’m hanging off her every word.
“Then one day when I was working, he was sitting at the bar doing paperwork, and he was all distracted by his phone. He kept typing something, then putting it down. Typing, putting it down. Typing, putting it down. He lookbenmiserable about it too, and since you know I’m nosy like that, I kind of went over and checked out his phone while pretending to complain about the customers.”
We both laugh at the admission. I can see the scene playing out in my head: Dylan running his hands through his hair and leaving it stuck in all different directions after getting frustrated by the paperwork, DeeDee sashaying over and flicking a bar towel at him.
“He was typing a message out to you.”
My laugh dies in my throat.
“Over and over again.” Her tone turns as soft as her naturally throaty voice will allow. “I couldn’t really read what it said, but I could see your name, and I could see the message always started with ‘thank you.’”
Thank you.
It means more than ‘I miss you.’ It means more than ‘I want you back.’ If that was all he decided to send me, I’d know he isn’t ready to do what I asked. I’d know he isn’t ready to climb higher, but tothankme...
That means he’s found something, something he didn’t have before.
“He didn’t send it,” I blurt before I can stop myself. “He didn’t send me anything.”
The hope that’s been rising inside me like a balloon pops all of a sudden. If Dylan really did want to reach out to me, wouldn’t he have done it already?
DeeDee squeezes my knee. “Maybe he’s not ready yet, but I think he’s working really hard to get there. I just thought you should know.”
Two of the cooks walk through the door just then, joking and pushing each other around. They call out a greeting, and DeeDee lifts her glass in a salute. I do my best to look personable, but my mind is busy flinging my thoughts around like a slingshot.
“I’m gonna get thesemecsto make me some food. Be back soon,” DeeDee announces. She gives my arm a reassuring pat before following the cooks into the kitchen.
I reach for my Guinness and take another sip. I’m staring out at the pedestrians passing in front of the windows when it hits: that itching, twitching rush of inspiration that always crawls up my spine and along my skin to announce the arrival of a poem.
Ripping my notebook out of my bag, I flip to a blank page and start again.
I wasn’t old enough for a real glass
So they gave me a plastic cup.
My pen only pauses for a second before the words keep flowing.
Twenty-Two
Dylan
FREE VERSE: Poetry that is not limited to a distinct meter or rhyme scheme and which often follows the natural patterns of speech
“She isn’t here, man.”
Zach answers my question before I can even ask it, and I’m glad he doesn’t make me say it out loud. She hasn’t replied to my text, although considering it’s been three weeks since she walked away from me at McGill and I only felt ready to send the message yesterday, that’s not saying much.
I knew she might not show. I knew I might not get another shot.
That doesn’t make it any easier to accept.
“But pretty much everyone else you know is,” Zach continues. “I saw your brother. I knew it was him from the shoulders. How do you beefcakes even fit through doors?”
“Sideways,” I joke.
