"You seem rather preoccupied this evening," Hugh said to his wife, Marjorie. "What's on your mind?"

"Well, you know I've joined this Expressive Writing class, and our first assignment is to write a story around the picture of a woman - a sad woman - and I simply can't come up with any ideas. It's not to be too long, but all the plots I can think of would fill a novel."

"Let's see the picture," said her husband, "perhaps I can come up with something."

"But would that be fair?"

"Writing a good story hasn't anything to do with 'fairness'. You want to interest your readers. They don't care where the ideas come from." Hugh was a retired magazine editor.

While he was speaking, Marjorie rummaged in her briefcase and produced the photograph - a three-quarter shot of an elderly lady with remarkably good features, but such a sad face. She must have been through a lot. "There she is," said Marjorie, and held the picture out to Hugh, who was in the act of drinking his after-dinner coffee.

"Good God!" he exclaimed, tipping the cup and splashing coffee on his pants.

"What's the matter? asked his wife. "Do you know her?"

"No, of course, I don't."

"Well, why did you react like that? Here let me get a cloth. And I've just had your trousers cleaned." She laid the picture on the table and went out of the room. Hugh bent over to scan the features of the woman, then relaxed back into his chair.

"Well, have you any bright ideas?" asked his wife, returning with a damp cloth and rubbing the coffee stains.

"Give me a minute," said Hugh, "and also give me some more coffee, if you will." He picked up the photo. "Remarkable eyes, and such a beautiful complexion."

"My dear man, her face is a mass of wrinkles."

"Yes, I know it is now, but when she was younger her skin was smooth as rose petals."

Marjorie looked at her husband. "Did you know her when she was younger?"

"No, of course not. I told you I don't know her. I'm just letting my imagination take over; give me a moment to think."

Marjorie poured herself another cup of coffee, sat down and waited. She looked at her husband. Forty years ago they had married, she thirty, he thirty-five. They were known by friends as a happy, contented couple, and yes, the friends were right. They had had a comfortable life, both only children of elderly parents and they themselves childless. Hugh had been a successful publisher and she had done well in real estate. But of course she had not been able to go with her husband to conventions in different countries, and there were periods in his life about which she knew nothing, except for comments about the hospitality being good, or otherwise, and the meeting of friends and rivals in the publishing business.

"I would say she had been an actress," said Hugh, looking again at the picture. "She trained in London and battled to the top of her profession without financial help. One night at a reception after a performance, she met a man with whom she fell in love. They had "an affair", as it is known. So the thing didn't last, but before they parted she gave him this picture - one of her tragedy roles, Medea, I think it was." Hugh stopped and took another sip of coffee.

"You think it was..."

"Well, my dear, I'm just re-living the past of this picture woman. Have I helped at all?"

Marjorie picked up the photograph, looked at it intently and put it back in her briefcase. "Yes, I think you have. Lucky it was only a short affair; my story is not to be more than one thousand words. I think I'll go up to bed. See you later."