Farewell to an Artist

About a month ago, my landlord introduced me to his friend who has an art studio across the street from me. With my landlord semi-translating, she showed me her paintings and her students' paintings. I liked them. I tend to like anything that a real, live person creates simply because they created it. I liked her, too. And her cat. Their super short buzz cuts matched and she's the one and only female I've seen here with very short hair. Her cat's the only shaved cat I've seen here, too (excluding the puffy fluff ball left at the end of the tail). I felt like some sort of friendship could form there and despite our language barriers she'd be my Turkish friend. I could see myself spending many afternoons there, drinking tea on the studio's balcony while she painted or directed one of her students in watercolor. She could help me learn Turkish, maybe teach me some painting, and I'd provide her cat with hours of free pats in exchange. And maybe some cookies. She'd be my little drop of peace corps in an otherwise rather American experience so far. I could see it and wanted it to happen. Then school started and my days filled up and I saw her painting peacefully in her studio with her students and cat while I rushed past on my way home every evening, too tired to think of a single Turkish word, too tired for small talk over tea. Not realizing I was sacrificing a potentially lovely friendship for a pat on the back at work. All consuming work that I so easily let consume me. Yesterday, my glance into her studio was met by blank walls and emptiness. No tranquil painters to bring me a glimmer of a different life and no shaved cat to disapprovingly meow at my hurried pace. She's moved and I'll never be friends with her and my Turkish is going nowhere, as is my ability to paint.