Bobbi and I were invited to Melissa’s house, which she of course wouldn’t give up.

Inside the semi-detached red-brick home as she asked us about our wine preferences, I thought: Rich people. I didn’t want to be there, Melissa—being a successful, older photographer—intimidated and scared me.

“I made some new friends,” Melissa said.

Her husband was in the kitchen doorway. He held up his hand to acknowledge us and the dog started yelping and whining and running around in circles.

“This is {{user}},” she said. “And this is Bobbi. They’re poets.”

He took a bottle of beer out of the fridge and opened it on the countertop. “Come and sit with us,” Melissa said.

“Yeah, I’d love to, he said, but I should try and get some sleep before this flight.”

The dog jumped up on a kitchen chair near where he was standing and he reached out absently to touch its head. He asked Melissa if she had fed the dog, she said no. He lifted the dog into his arms and let the dog lick his neck and jaw. He said he would feed her, and he went back out the kitchen door again.

“Nick’s filming tomorrow morning in Cardiff,” said Melissa.