“And I’m Wole,” said the man next to him, his voice tinted with an accent I couldn’t place. My heart jolted as the porch light revealed the milky film covering his left eye. “You’re much older than the photographs I’ve seen,” he chuckled.

“And this is Beatrice, by the way,” Clyde said, bending down to pet the dog.

As Wole helped you fetch wine from the trunk, Clyde led me into the house as Beatrice trailed behind, leaving a maelstrom of fur in the air as she went. In the main sanctuary of the church was a kitchen and dining room with eighteen-foot ceilings braced with thick wooden beams. Clyde told me they had “bought the place for a song” several years ago. They had kept two of the old pews, which ran along either side of their dining-room table, itself an old wood door placed over two sawhorses. He mentioned they had recently built a chicken coop out back and kept about a dozen hens for eggs. I noticed he continued to wear his cap indoors and that its colours offset his rosacea.

As you and Wole entered, Beatrice resumed her barking in excitement and I remember being struck by its abrasive volume indoors, the fact that neither of your friends reprimanded her, and the immense look of irritation on your face. When she quieted down, I realized a Nina Simone record was playing and mushrooms were sautéing on the stove, which Wole had returned to tending. Over dinner Wole told me about growing up in Lagos. He seemed like the quiet counterbalance to Clyde’s performative excesses. That night was the first time I ever tried quinoa, the first time I had a sip of wine, the first time I met a gay couple or realized that you had gay friends and that neither you nor I seemed to be repelled by this.

You asked them if they ever got lonely out there in the country. Didn’t they miss their friends? And Ted, without a hint of malice, replied: “Monica, our friends are dead.”

This initially struck me as such a strange thing to say. They were both your age. Early fifties. You pursed your lips and nodded, as if in apology. I had the impression you realized your error even before Ted had finished replying. Then, in the lull that came after, I asked Wole and Clyde how they’d met.

“The Rare Book Library at the University of Toronto,” Wole replied. “It’s part of Robarts Library, that big, awful brutalist building, do you know it?” addressing the question to you.

“I actually find it kind of beautiful,” you replied.

“I caught his eye between the stacks.”

“And he started pursuing me relentlessly!” Clyde laughed. “I told him: we can date but I’m celibate.”

“What’s celibate?” I asked.

“It means not having sex,” he replied.

“For how long?”

“Jord,” you admonished.