Saw him at the supermarket, had seen him before when he was a child, he bought two liter bottles of plonk, told him to buy a better quality wine, he didn't listen to me. I shared a table with him and a painter in the park, they sat there drinking didn't offer me any. The artist, disturbed by our silence got up and began painting a tree, red trunk, black leaves and something yellow in between, I thought of the Belgian flag, had been there once, a winter, dark place, windy, many canals, but the beer was good. The artist, now famous, sold his tree moved away and said deep things to magazines about art and politics. My childhood friend died; cancer it was said, but it could have been the wine.
