Blanche lifted a pearl earring from the vast selection that lined her jewelry box and secured it on her ear. She then took its twin and placed it symmetrically on her other ear. Perfect, she thought, gazing at her reflection in the mirror above the vanity. You look gorgeous! Just gorgeous!, she mentally added to give herself a boost of confidence.

Stepping away from the vanity, Blanche rolled her eyes. Why do I do this to myself? Although she would never admit it to anyone, Blanche grew tired of the same old charade, night after night. She no longer wanted to be a vixen. She wanted to be a wife – not just anybody's wife, George's wife. George, her husband of nearly three decades. George, the father of her children. George, the man of her dreams.

Not that going out with a different, charming bachelor every night didn't have its benefits. It temporarily cured her loneliness. However, no matter what she told the girls, she loathed herself afterward. Every new conquest became yet another time that she had cheated on George. It gnawed away at her conscience.

Blanche slipped into her favorite pair of red heels and glanced at herself in the full length mirror on her closet door. There, she thought. All set. She plastered a smile on her face in attempt to hide her puffy eyes, irritated from the solid hour during which she had cried beforehand. No, I need more lipstick, she acknowledged.

Blanche sauntered back to the vanity and selected a lipstick from the disorganized pile inside her makeup case. As she painted the coral hue on her lips, she felt as if the color was washing away her vulnerability and masking her imperfections with the facade of a strong, vivacious woman – the woman who everyone believed she was.

Realizing that she was primped to perfection, Blanche took one last glance at herself and sashayed out her bedroom door, forcing her high heels to pound upon the floor of the hallway in a confident manner. As the living room came into view, she noticed that Rose was sitting alone on the sofa, quietly knitting a scarf.

"Hi, Rose," Blanche exclaimed, opening her sequined handbag to check its contents.

"Hi, Blanche!" Rose grinned and set down her scarf. "What time is your date coming?"

"Oh, he's not coming here. I'm meeting him," Blanche replied with a smile.

Rose looked puzzled. "That's funny. I thought that you liked your dates to pick you up here, so that Dorothy and I can marvel at their beauty and be jealous that we were not blessed with your stunning good looks."

Blanche's smile faded. "Did I say that?"

"You sure did! Last Tuesday," Rose answered.

Blanche patted Rose on the shoulder. "I'm sorry, honey. I do get carried away sometimes."

"So, why isn't he coming here?" Rose asked innocently.

"Well, this man is sort of special." Blanche winked slightly. "I'll see you later, Rose."

"Bye, Blanche! Have fun!"

Blanche waltzed over to the door and stepped out into the warm Miami air. Taking a deep breath, she journeyed to the car and sped away to meet her date.

After a twenty-minute drive, Blanche pulled into a gravel driveway and stepped out onto the lawn. She slid her keys into her purse and strolled across the grass to a weathered, wooden bench. She sat down on the bench and stared melancholically at the headstone in front of her.

"Hello, George," Blanche said, wiping a tear from her cheek. "I love you, sweetheart."

That night, Blanche Devereaux didn't seek artificial happiness with any other man. She was reunited with the love of her life, and frankly, she hadn't felt so alive in years.

THE END