Two small wiry women with short gray hair wearing big sweaters over black leggings and clogs with wool socks stop to pick up their cards and heavy mugs of tea. I feel an instant wave of something—sadness—jealousy—anger. They look like Glenn before she got really sick; what she would still look like now if she weren’t sick. Four more younger women, all blondes, wearing thick knitted ponchos and shawls and pom-pom hats like some kind of private tribe, pick up their cards and beverages. Another group of women, weekend warriors in fleece and boiled wool slippers here to tap into their potential, find and hand each other their place cards, then pass around the basket of protein bars. Each group is separate but together, looking after each other, getting ready for the day ahead, like they’re at base camp, preparing to summit.

Sari finally appears, in leggings and a white cashmere poncho-cape. She smiles wanly as she moves through the room, catching up on what she’s missed. Gregory fills her in like a senior aide to a politician whose been working the room in her absence; she nods as he whispers in her ear, then cues up her response: first going over the basic logistics of the morning session, the “creativity warm-up,” and then addressing the elephant in the room.

“We have one couple here today, Judy and Gary, but I know that many of you, if not most of you, are married or have been married at one time, so it’s worth talking about the role that relationships play in the creative process,” Sari whisper-lectures. “The culture wants us coupled, and yet coupling can often keep us from our true noble journey—our creative process. Our spouses mean well, but in the daily dance of marital obligation we can get locked into unproductive cycles.” She clasps her hands together. “Unproductive cycles that we need to break out of.” She pulls her hands apart. “Which is why you’re here. And why I’m here. And why Gregory is here.” Here she cracks a wry half-smile. “He knows firsthand how hard it is to be married to a creative person.”

Gary shoots me a look, and we lock eyes. If he could, he would move a finger toward his mouth. If we’d been allowed to bring our phones into the seminar, he would be texting me our favorite emoji or our second-favorite . He’s dying to leave early and so am I, but there is no way out. Yet. But despite his misery, I suspect there’s a part of him that’s into this, that deep down he wants to form bonds and connect with people other than me. He’s already going back for a second sticky bun and making conversation with one of the tribes of women.

Sari touches my arm with a mixture of kindness and sympathy. I assume it’s because my husband is embarrassing me—she must know the feeling, given her own husband’s omnipresence, even if they do present as a team. “How are you holding up?”