Emails from Jake to Meg
You’re not picking up.
Pick up the phone Meg. Please.
It's three in the morning and I can't sleep for thinking about you, and where you are and what you're doing.
I'm sorry. I'm a jerk. I should be taken out and shot.
It's hard what we do. Other people have two things - work and home - with some kind of boundary between the two. We don't.
Work is home and life is work, and there's no downtime, and nothing in between.
Please call me.
Damn. Dozed off.
Had the tightrope dream. Me on the high wire, underneath me empty air.
All those thousand feet of nothing.
I know that's how we feel - rented house, borrowed money, nothing coming in. Pitching our lives on a hope and a prayer.
It will come good. I know it will.
Even now, at 4.25 on a sleepless night when the gremlins of doubt hunt in feral packs and fear stalks the world, even now I know it will come good.
Cal me call me call me call me call me.
OK, so you've left the country.
You've gone to live in Nicaragua or Nigeria or Nova Scotia or some other place that begins with N or some other letter of the freaking alphabet.
Or maybe it was aliens. Our bug-eyed friends from Planet Zog have taken you in away in their saucer-shaped ship to a galaxy far away.
Know what - I'm looking forward to life as a bachelor. I shall go live in a frat house, drink beer in awesome quantities, crash on couches, smoke French cigarettes, and cry until you come back.
From Jake. The man who loves you.
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