We’re pulling out of Penn Station with our laptops open on the table between us and way too much Chinese takeout for two people. Not surprisingly, the other passengers have given us a wide berth—empty seats abound. They’re probably jealous.

I swirl the Styrofoam container, give it a deep sniff, and then a long, delicious slurp.

“I pronounce this soup . . . the second best in the land,” I say solemnly.

Noah clutches his heart. “My world is shattered.”

“Speaking of your world,” I say, “what’s your character conundrum?” I want to make sure we cover everything during the three hours we’ve got together before Noah gets off the train to see his mom. Then I’ll turn around and take the three p.m. Acela back to New York. It’s a little absurd, and that’s what I like about it.

He sits up straighter, brings his fingers to rest on his keyboard. His dark hair falls over his eyes, and I bank the image of Noah Ross in work mode.

“Usually,” he says, “I start by asking what my characters want, and then what stands in their way of getting it. That how I get to know them.”

“Sure. Writing 101.”

“But the structure of this book is so different,” he says, “I can’t rely on a single guiding desire to propel the characters for five decades. I know Elizabeth is a doctor. I know Edward is a poet. I know what they look like, and how they walk, and what they eat for breakfast—”

“Ooh, what’s on the menu?”

“Cornflakes and a quartered orange,” Noah says. “At least, until Edward turns fifty. Then he learns to cook.”

“Took him long enough.”

“My problem is,” Noah says, “since they already have each other, what else do they want?”

I think about his question. In life and in fiction, most people come to be defined by their obstacles. What they overcome and what they don’t. Summiting the mountain often reveals an unexpected world. It makes me think about my own obstacles recently—with Ryan, and with Noah—and how they’re changing what I thought I wanted.

“Maybe you need to ask yourself how they imagine the rest of their life,” I say. “Then you could explore the scenes where they get close to that life. And the scenes where they fall short. Their love story might be the opposite of what they planned,” I say. “That would be the fun of it, proving themselves wrong. Finding beauty in their missteps.”

“I like that,” Noah says. “And it works, because I think he’s mercurial. Someone who can still surprise his wife, even decades into their marriage.”

“Learning to cook at fifty would surprise me, too,” I say. “And if she’s a doctor . . .” I trail off. I find myself thinking of my mother. “She’s meticulous, ambitious, generous, and stubborn.”