by J. S. Volpe
* * *
T-mail transmission:
From: Reynard Fuggs
To: Solace Tenant
June 22, 6692; 7:59 PM:
Dear Solace,
You’re right, this is quite weird. But then, it seems that our whole history of meet-ups and partings has been pretty weird, no?
Yeah, you were a teacher last time we saw each other. How could you forget that last meeting? I bled all over your couch and you were mad at me for being less than forthcoming about what had happened. I don’t blame you. I would’ve done the same. I put you in an awkward spot, and I apologize. Water under the bridge, right?
I bet you’re actually a really good writer and you’re just being unnecessarily modest about it. Writing seems like something that would come easily to you. Any chance I’ll get to read some of your work someday?
Since when is your last name Tenant? Is that a pseudonym? Or is it really your last name? Heck, I didn’t know you *had* a last name, and at the risk of sounding jerkish, I never thought to ask. Then again, given how brief many of our previous meetings were, there wasn’t usually a lot of time for questions.
Like you, I’ve managed to set myself up pretty well financially, so I do whatever strikes my fancy. A lot of what I’ve been doing lately falls under the broad heading of entertainment—stuff like juggling, acting, and so on. Not really theater work. More like street art, I guess you’d say. I enjoy it way too much to think of it as work.
In fact, that’s what I’m off to do right now. Mail me back soon. I’d love to hear more about yourself and your life of late.
—Reynard