It’s your fault we can’t grow old together. I heard you on the radio. If only it had been a production from the golden age! I could have known better. You would have been dead and buried before I heard you. Damn this radio play renaissance that brought you into my living room. It isn’t fair. You sounded young and beautiful. You are beautiful, you know. People probably used to tell you that more often. I imagine now you get called distinguished. Or statuesque, maybe. You’ve had four husbands but I don’t think you’re fickle. All of your marriages lasted years and years and here I am, barely old enough to vote. It isn’t all your fault, but can’t you see why I felt tricked? You sound a quarter of your age! I don’t know what I’d have done if you were as young as the character you played in that production. Propose, I suppose. Though it probably wouldn’t have worked. Once I found your picture online and realized I had been deceived I wavered. …