The frizzled poet wore a face of disappointment when she came in night after night to see the collaborators together. “Lancelot, my dear. Won’t you talk anymore to anyone but that boy?” she said once, leaning close, when Leo went in to fetch the dessert tray for the group. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll come back to you soon, Emmylinn. It’s just the initial stages. The head-over-heels phase.” She rested her papery cheek on his upper arm, and said, “I understand. But dovey, it is not healthy to be so immersed for so long. You need to come up for air.”
