For four weeks I heard nearly nothing of N. Whenever I phoned her just her voicemail answered. Days later a short text message arrived, saying not much more than: “talk to you soon.” These circles of absence are a frequent companion of dear N.’s life, and us, who we love N. dearly, know this for a very long time. We wait patiently and we can wait quite reassured: one day the phone will ring and N. is back. Yesterday was such a day and while I bought beetroot, walnuts and feta cheese for the salad I called D., C. and B. to come over for dinner: N. is back, I said and at 7 PM we all sat together and with a dramatically gesture N. first sighed and then helped herself to salad and cheese before exclaiming even more dramatically: !it is all over.” In the last three months N. fell in love with an artist. The artist, so N. was a most talented man, who spontaneously threw color against a massive canvas and made insightful photographs of the color running down. Obviously the artist aims for a career in waiting rooms of private practices or even worse, sees in Instagram the future of the art scene. “Read On” said N. four weeks ago: don’t be such a spoil-sport, HE-IS-SO-AWESOME. His artwork shows me so many new dimensions of my inner self. Back then I tried not to laugh too hard, but now where all the inspired awesomeness is gone, I am as nice as I only can be and help N. to more salad. The artist however, was good company and N. and he were inseparable for the last four weeks. Then, just a fortnight ago, the artist invited N. over to his place. The candles were lit and I am afraid the table was surrounded by massive canvasses. Salad and Meat were quite okay, says N. and we all nod. Classical music played in the back. Seriously, says N. I was about to fall seriously in love. She shakes her head still in shock and disbelief. I bring cake and B. opens another bottle of wine. N. nods. After we finished the meal, she says, the artist promised a surprise. N. now truly excited thought he might unveil a portrait of her. The artist disappeared into the kitchen. N. admired the portraits and her luck of having found such a companion to sweeten the long and grey autumn days and silently smiled to herself. N. waited and N. waited longer and longer. N. waited and finally N. got impatient and decided to have a look what the artist was doing. Maybe he could use a hand. Maybe he was in need of her hand. The artist, so N. was still stuck in the kitchen,when she arrived. In the middle of a long table, stood tinned fruits of all sorts. The artist busy to open can after can. Tinned peaches, apples, pears and mandarins, N. saw and she saw it with great disgust. The artist looked proud and a bit sorry for the long delay. He pointed to a chocolate fountain behind him. The melting chocolate had already begun to run down. For dessert the artist said, they would dip the tinned fruits into the melting chocolate but this would only be the beginning. Afterwards they would throw fruits and chocolate against the canvas to express their sweet and new love for each other. A piece of pear, dripping with sweet fruit juice he dipped into the chocolate to feed N. But N. in mere disgust and nausea, stumbled backwards, away from the half open cans, the chocolate fountain and the massive, empty canvas to grab her bag and go. Five minutes later N. and her hope of a bright and artistic future were gone. What the artist did with all the canned fruits and the mountain of melted chocolate is uncertain. On the same evening N. deleted her Instagram account. D., C., B., and I nod in silence. then we are having raspberry tart. The raspberries are fresh and N. asks for a second piece.