I was painting a vein when my husband entered my studio, told me he loved another, and left me. Anyone who has ever painted flowers and leaves knows how much to paint a vein is a delicate operation that cannot be interrupted. We use an extremely fine brush, barely soaked in a creamy white. We take a breath to avoid any tremor, and we trace the vein in one light line that we hope is successful. So I finished my vein, rinsed my brush, wiped it carefully with a slight rotation so that the tip kept its sharpness, put it in its holder, and looked up. My husband, of course, did not wait for me. He had gone noiselessly, closing the door gently. I leaned on the back of the chair and began to think.