"Beverly?" George yelled as he walked through the door, luggage in hand. "Bev I'm home." He was greeted by silence. Confused, he put down his bags at the foot of the stairs and walked through the living room into the kitchen. 'It's ten at night, where could she be?' he wondered. As he scanned the room he saw a note on the kitchen table. He walked over and picked it up.

Dear George,

            I've thought about writing you this letter for almost a year now. I love you, George. I love you not as much as the day I met you, but fifty-three years exponentially. You have been my best friend, my husband, my lover, and the father of our three children. You gave me the luxury of staying at home with the kids when they were growing up, and the luxury of going back to school once they left. You have supported every goal I have ever made for myself, and comforted me every time I felt like a failure. In short, because the length of the truth would long outlive me, you are the love of my life.

            With that said, I hate you. I hate you, George, because you have done nothing wrong and you're not to blame. The way you look at me now is perfectly understandable. I, too, cringe when I undress and see my sagging, puckered flesh. You once said my hips could "kill a man." I now fear you think the same thing, but for a very different reason. How you have aged so well... it feels like a betrayal. Weren't we supposed to grow old together, George? How was I supposed to know the dangers of tanning and smoking when I was young? Those were the very things that drew you to me - the mysterious golden siren.

            I saw your subtle smirk in the diner last week when the waitress suggested I was your mother. And I saw your lustful eyes when she walked away. I am no fool, George. I know the flame in your heart which once ignited a hundred songs and poems went out years ago. I also know that you are a good man, and that integrity has prevented you from leaving me to be with any of the numerous younger women who return your amorous gaze. The bed we share has become a coffin, and I've always unfairly blamed you for this. I'm sure you did not want to not want me. How easy everything would be if we could control our feelings. But our feelings age, too, and unlike you, your feelings have abandoned me.   

            I have not been able to admit the truth, fully and unflinchingly, until now: You are no longer in love with me. You have left me; I have been left. Me: the beauty queen. I have been dethroned.  

            So here it is: I'm leaving you, George. It is my final gift to you; my best friend, my husband, my lover, and the father of our three children. It's done; I have made up my mind and you know what a stubborn old lady I am. I will be fine. Heartbroken, yes, but that would be the case even if we stayed together. I am not leaving a forwarding address as I don't want you to play the martyr and come and convince me to stay. I know you love me, George. Please don't doubt that I know that. But I want you to enjoy the rest of your life without the burden of being obligated to an ugly old woman.  

Yours,

Beverly

            George grabbed his chest, as though his heart might fall right out and onto the floor. He sat down and put his head in his hands. He wanted to cry but the shock was paralyzing. 'How could she do this? She's nuts.' He got up and walked through the house. He noticed the absence of random objects: the toaster, a clock they got in Brazil, an antique mirror in the hallway, two of the four coasters on the dining room table. As he looked around, frantic for some sign that it was all a dream, he was arrested by a vivid memory of Beverly undressing in front of the full-length bedroom mirror, as she always did, a few weeks ago. He had cringed, but only because he saw her miserable expression as she examined her naked body, the body he loved; petite, yet voluptuous. 'Why did...' Before he could finish the thought, his left arm went numb, and he fell to the floor.

            The autopsy said he died of a heart attack, but when his children found the letter, they knew their father, the devoted husband of the former beauty queen, had died of a broken heart.    

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