“Did she tell you the story of how I proposed? Probably not, because it’s not a story she ever tells. The first time I saw Anna was at an opening in London. Now, here’s all I know about art: The kind that I’m supposed to like is expensive. That night it was a group show of an ‘exciting’ new wave of artists—cows sliced in sections floating in formaldehyde, ice sculptures of the artist’s frozen blood, lumps of cow dung covered with glitter glued to canvases—it was basically just ridiculous and indulgent, but what do I know about art? Everyone was young and excited. I felt like a very square dinosaur. Then I saw Anna, and I thought she was more spectacular than any painting ever painted. Soon we were dating. Or rather, I was dating. She was just having dinner with me because, I think, she was cash-strapped and hungry. Soon I was in love, and she was still just having dinner. We had many meals in those first weeks, and I was starting to get fat. I knew I needed to do something to get her attention. Because she loved art, I called one of my dealers and asked for something modest in size, very special, not overpowering, cost not an issue, something one-of-a-kind. He found a small painting, and I presented it to her after yet another dinner, and she knew the artist and seemed pleased. That night she kissed me for the first time. The painting she kept at her flat, resting on the mantel, leaning next to a small pot where she put her keys. I offered to have a security system/alarm installed for her, but she didn’t want one. She said, ‘None of us is safe.’ More and more dinners. One day I stopped over on a whim and noticed that the painting wasn’t in its usual place. I asked her, ‘Where is it?’ She said, ‘Gone, Philip. It’s gone.’

“Oh, wait,” he said, “I skipped something. Anna is an avid grocery shopper. She loves, I don’t know, squeezing fruit, figuring out what’s ripe. Finding a good bargain. She may as well clip coupons, she’s that frugal with food. Her one indulgence—and I hardly see it as that—is to have her groceries delivered. She had a delivery boy, a young man maybe in his early twenties—black, dreadlocks, but that’s not important—who apparently was fond of the painting. Every time he made a delivery, he would stop and stare at it. They would discuss it. He loved it. He was possessed by it and, apparently, not because of who painted it—incidentally, it was by de Kooning.”

“Oh, de Kooning,” I said. “I think I’ve heard of him.”