An eager-eyed, spindly-limbed man, somewhere in his forties, whose shoulders had an IT worker’s computer hunch that threatened to swallow his head like a tortoiseshell, was surveying the room, pointing out each writer to a woman. The woman had her curly hair in a messy bun, two tendrils hanging beside her cheeks like a picture frame, and I assumed she was his similarly aged wife by her obliging yet uncaring nod, as if he were explaining to her the backstories of Star Wars figurines. He was an easy addition to the fan category.
