ii By now, I understand the concept of the close-up perfectly; its use in film noir, the camera panning slow across a tidy desk until it settles on some ordinary prop – a letter-opener, a length of garden twine – and draws so near we see each possibility, the sharpened blade, the tightening cord. It’s all a matter of perspective. Look close enough, you told me once, and anything’s significant. This morning, when you showed me to the door, your fingers touched my elbow for a second. iii My favourite kind of shot? A view of other people’s windows, glowing on a terraced street at night. I pass their sickly yellow light those evenings I walk home alone and can’t help glancing in to note the invitation of a chair pulled out, the neck of an angle poise, the fresh cut daffodils that finish off each perfect set, where, any second you might saunter in to take your place and turn your head, but not to look at me. Perhaps you’re startled by a cat outside. Your wife calls softly from another room.