Page 65 of Glass Half Full
Dylan
JUXTAPOSITION: The parallel placement of two opposing themes, concepts, or people within a literary work for the purpose of comparing or contrasting
“Stella,if you wanted fries, you should have just ordered them.”
Stella doesn’t even glance at me as she picks another sweet potato fry off my plate and misses her mouth three times before finally managing to take a bite. Her eyes have been glued to our waiter since we walked in here.
“Just give him your number already,” Owen urges before reaching for one of my fries as well.
The fries were free. These two just decided to be idiots and get salads instead.
It’s been longer than I care to remember since the three of us met up. We used to hole up in Owen’s apartment for hours and hours planning spoken word workshops, and I’ve spent countless evenings hanging out with them at slams. Owen and I both took the youth team to nationals for two years in a row. The easy way we joke with each other—and apparently the way we steal each other’s food—makes me realize just how much I’ve missed them.
I’ve missed this part of my life. I thought I’d be able to handle keeping up with my commitments to the poetry scene, but since taking the manager job, I’ve been dropping them one by one. I haven’t even made time to hang out with two of my closest friends for months. Stella was thrilled with the cat-themed gifts I finally gave her today, but I know that’s not enough to make up for neglecting someone I care about.
“He’s so dreamy.” She’s practically drooling as she twists in her seat so she can watch the waiter disappear into the kitchen. “He’s also so small. I’d probably crush him. I can’t give him my number.”
At six foot one, she makes a fair point. Stella is the definition of a gentle giant. She’s the sweetest person I know. She transitioned a few years ago, and seeing her perform her first poem as a woman was one of the most emotional moments in Montreal slam history. I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house.
“Maybe he’s into that,” Owen jokes as he pushes his newsboy cap up higher on his head.
He is the only man under sixty-five who wears a newsboy cap completely unironically. We’re the definition of a mismatched trio.
“Is erotic crushing a thing?” Stella asks, finally focusing back on our table when the waiter doesn’t seem to be returning anytime soon.
“Stella, baby.” Owen pats her on the shoulder. “Everything is a thing.”
“Jesus, guys,” I complain, “at least let me get my lunch down first—and no, that is not an invitation for you to steal more of my food.”
They help themselves to more fries anyway.
“So how goes the life of a kitchen manager?” Owen asks once our plates have been cleared and our milkshakes are on the way. “You must be busy. We haven’t seen you in—what, forever? It’s been forever, right?”
“And a day,” Stella chimes in.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am, guys. Really. I’m a shit friend. I’ll be at next month’s slam, though,” I assure them. “Things have just been crazy with the reopening.”
“Last time we messaged, you were in the middle of hiring people,” Owen comments. “Did you pick a bunch of hotties?”
The sight of Renee in my bed last night pushes to the front of my mind, taking hold of my senses. I can still feel her in my arms, feel the rise and fall of her breath as she slept, feel the stillness that gentle movement brought to my thoughts. Lying with the warmth of her body pressed to mine in the dark, everything felt still.
Then the sun came up. The world rushed in, and I haven’t been able to stop moving since. My fingers toy with my napkin, and my knee bounces under the table, trying and failing to fend off the onslaught of doubts that crept in with the morning light.
I don’t know what my face does as I stare at Stella and Owen, but whatever it is, it’s enough to make them glance at each other, back at me, and then each other again.
“Oh, he so did hire a hottie,” Stella mutters as Owen nods.
“You know I can hear you, right?”
They both face me again and rest their chins on their hands.
“What’s her name?” Owen asks, making a show of batting his eyelashes.
“Don’t do that. It’s creepy as fuck.”
“Answer the question, Trottard.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
