Boris,

why are you doing this to me? What’s happening?
I was always there for you. I stood in for you, in every dispute. I celebrated you for your youth, your style, your Tennis, for being the first German to be naked on the cover of der Stern with a black woman, your wife.

Later, when people made fun of you, I was the one to defend you. It wasn’t always easy; you were some target. I had already forgotten about Sabrina Setlur. Nevertheless you had more and more dark moments. This broom closet romp, remember? I was on your side no matter what. But now? You are only 45 years old.
Why this omnipresence on twitter? Why this ridiculous tweef with Oliver Pocher? (That is a term I learned today, tweef, a composition of tweet and beef as in fight)

Why this longing for being a victim? That’s not sexy at all.
Boris, where is your politeness? Your elegance?
And: What happened to your face?
Maybe I just let go.
That’s where our story ends.
Boris, I loved you, I really did.
Jeanne