Dear Betty:

The sign outside reads: "Luxury Condos Coming Soon."

I feel so heartbroken.

Dear Betty:

All those hours in Blink's cafe, and we never thought to invite her out, or visit her studio. Maybe we women make each other invisible. The old invisible to the young, but the young invisible to the old in a certain way, too.

Her studio is beautiful. It made me think about my old house in Fox Chapel. Despite its many rooms, I never had a room dedicated to my work, because, of course, my work was running the house. I didn't need a room.

Blink's studio is in an old beer factory, with natural light streaming in, and the faintest, just the faintest, whiff of beer in the old beams. She made me coffee and asked me what kind of music I wanted to listen to. When I told her I didn't care, she said she didn't believe me.

"Let me play you this," Blink said, and put on this enchanting, dancing music in Portuguese. You knew it was about heartbreak, even without knowing the language. Blink told me the woman is, well, my age, and she sings in a big skirt and bare feet. Her hips are wide, and her face is wrinkled, and Blink says, she is the sexiest thing she has ever seen.

CONFIDENTIAL REPORT

Subject appears to be taking mood elevators. Or perhaps suffering a psychotic break. (Investigator is aware that he only has a B.A. in psychology, but feels he must hazard some guesses.)

Subject has begun a series of nude painting sessions with the young proprietor of the independent cafe across the street from Starbucks. An unusual thing to be doing in any case, but even more surprising given the subject's suicidal nature. Subject seems to be enjoying herself.

Today I did it, Betty.

Took off all my clothes and looked at myself in the mirror.

All the women's talk shows talk about it, but even when I was trying to be an actress, I never found my body all that appealing. And then, as the years passed, and Roy stopped touching me, I kept turning away from the mirror myself as if I were a terrible car accident.

But do you know what? I am not that bad. I am not that bad. Everything is lower and softer. A little larger. The only thing that truly upset me? The stretch marks from when I had Charlie.

Dear Betty:

Four bags.

That's what my life consists of, after all is said and done.

Dear Betty:

I can't disappoint Blink, who seems surprised that I would be willing to pose for her in the all together.

"This seems like something Betty would do," Blink says, and her eyes grow wet.

She's right. Where did that come from in you, Betty? You were older than me, more sheltered than me, but nothing stopped you. Herb adored you, even when you made him blush. He never told you to pipe down.

One of my few regrets was that we didn't become real friends until after Herb died. I remember the funeral. You wore red, and shocked the priest with your eulogy, talking about Herb's legs and his kisses. Maybe that's why you stayed married, and I didn't. I fell into the Wife Trap, that's what Blink calls it. Now Roy's married to a go-getter who makes him feel young, and even collaborates in his silly secret of making him younger.

If you were around, you'd tell me to forget my plan. To book a cruise with you, to find a Hawaiian boy to make me forget my troubles. You would have left me money, Betty, I know it. But the cancer ripped through you too fast.

Blink told me that she'll start painting me tomorrow, if I don't mind.

"How long will it take?" I ask.

"Are you going on a trip?"

"Something like it," I say, and suddenly I see my body floating down the river.

Dear Betty:

I can't disappoint Blink, who seems surprised that I would be willing to pose for her in the all together.

"This seems like something Betty would do," Blink says, and her eyes grow wet.

She's right. Where did that come from in you, Betty? You were older than me, more sheltered than me, but nothing stopped you. Herb adored you, even when you made him blush. He never told you to pipe down.

One of my few regrets was that we didn't become real friends until after Herb died. I remember the funeral. You wore red, and shocked the priest with your eulogy, talking about Herb's legs and his kisses. Maybe that's why you stayed married, and I didn't. I fell into the Wife Trap, that's what Blink calls it. Now Roy's married to a go-getter who makes him feel young, and even collaborates in his silly secret of making him younger.

If you were around, you'd tell me to forget my plan. To book a cruise with you, to find a Hawaiian boy to make me forget my troubles. You would have left me money, Betty, I know it. But the cancer ripped through you too fast.

Blink told me that she'll start painting me tomorrow, if I don't mind.

"How long will it take?" I ask.

"Are you going on a trip?"

"Something like it," I say, and suddenly I see my body floating down the river.