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2
Jakob
The clanking of metal against metal drowns out my thoughts.
Outside my studio, the air is full of the sound of people having fun, going to clubs, meeting up with dates.
I don’t get out much. Unless you count my studio, which is technically outdoors. It’s nothing but a temporary partition in a courtyard that’s accessible from the rental house I share with two others. What with all the welding and painting I do, I need as much ventilation as possible.
Now after everything that’s happened, my little studio is the most I get of fresh air and sunshine. Sometimes I sleep out here, much to my housemates’ consternation.
Those housemates, Suzanna and Stasi, both encourage me to submit some pieces of my art for consideration at a gallery, but I don’t know if my creations are ready for the world.
I know that I’m certainly not ready for the world to know who I am—on so many levels.
Where is Stasi these days, anyway? She went on vacation about a month ago, and she’s phoned Suzanna once or twice. I overheard some chatter that she met a man, but Suzanna’s been pretty cagey about who it is.
I understand the need to be private. This world demands too much information about people at all times.
Things are not like they were when Josephine and I were small. The world is preoccupied with gathering information now. People think they’re entitled to know all things, all the time.
I never did buy a smartphone, which everyone tells me makes me a weirdo. But it turns out that was the best decision I ever made. It certainly makes me tough to track down—especially for the palace guards.
If Josephine reads my letter and doesn’t phone me, then no harm done. Perhaps she’s in a relationship and feels strange about our long-ago friendship. Maybe she doesn’t want to explain to an English husband or boyfriend about an eccentric artist in Gravenland who keeps writing her letters.
The streetlamp outside casts intricate shadows across my current project, giving me ideas on how to improve the piece.
As I reach for my welding helmet, the house phone rings on the cluttered table beside me. I set down my tools and wipe my hands on a rag before picking up.
The caller ID displays a number from down the coast, and not England, so I blow out the breath I was holding. It’s not my friend Josephine.
I answer the call. “Hello?”
“Hello,” says a voice on the other end. “I’m calling for Jakob.”
The female voice is tinged with anticipation, and I realize it’s her.
My voice cracking, I reply, “Hello, Josephine.”
“Jakob! Oh my gods, hi!”
The surge of emotions is unreal. My heart palpitates as I try to grab on to anything—happiness, sadness, longing, anguish, guilt.
I made Josephine feel obligated to ring me.
But I’m so happy to hear from her.
It’s been so long, what will we even talk about? Foolish man, you have literally everything to discuss.
I lean against the cluttered table, the nightlife outside my open studio window fading into the background as I hone in on the sounds of her breathing.
“How are you, Josephine?”
A pause passes between us, and I can almost see her younger face searching for the right words. “I…I just read your letters for the first time. Tonight. All of them.”
My heart races at the sound of her voice, and for a moment, I feel painfully vulnerable. Exposed. I’ve no idea what she thinks of me now.
And did she say she read them all at once, for the first time? Tonight?
