Helen had a fascination for Audrey Hepburn. Helen, at fifty years old and past her prime, dressed in pearls, a turban and dark sunglasses, dressed this way just to sit on her patio chair, drink her beer, eat her twinkies and Doritos, and smoke endless cigarettes- the ashes dangling precariously from a black cigarette holder.
Her husband George would come home from work every night, sit on the patio with her, and hope for the best. Why did he bother? She was fragile, yes, but despicable.
There had to be a moment when he would decide to leave her.
They were so Albee. It had to go badly.
Who knew (not me) that when I wrote a play about my George and Helen I really believed deep down that all men leave- that there was no way George would stay (and I fought for him to stay in the play, I really, really, really fought for him).
And that one of the actors who played George in this play would be the man in my life who never left me.
Not a sad, sad, sad ending at all.
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