It was our anniversary. Twenty five years of marriage. Two kids grown up, gone to make their own lives. I had just turned fifty two and she recently became forty nine.

Materially speaking, I guess you could say we had made it. No debts, a house and on top of that investments worth something over £2m. I was proud of the latter. We had started with zip. Around ten grand that I'd inherited from my grandmother.

My wife used to be against shares, too risky she'd say. "Watch," I'd reply. After the initial early successes she'd converted. Backed me every penny of the way. Loyal and she had faith in me. I couldn't fault her on that.

I wanted to watch my wife dress. In the earlier days I had found this an extreme turn on and it had been the cause of us often being a bit late for wherever. Now I merely found it interesting.

I decided to look at her. I mean look at her and see, really take it in, not look at her without seeing, the way a couple as familiar with each other as those married twenty five years would normally look at each other.

She had been sensationally good looking when younger. And impossibly bright too. Much more than me. Speaking several languages. Intellectual.

Guys were queuing up to give her one in those days when I had first got to know her, those that weren't petrified by the combination of looks and brains, and I had won. Could never really understand why.

"Remember Carl" I'd say referring to an old boyfriend of hers I'd got to know, now some famous professor, "he was much cleverer than me, surely he was more suited to you than I was."

"Carl is clever, but he didn't turn my switch, you did."

"Why me?"

"Who knows, why did you pick me?"

"Because of the size of your breasts, why else? Mams like hot air balloons."

And she would laugh.

Incidentally I'd always hated the word "tits" ever since I knew what they were. Don't know why, it's strange. Even stranger in the context that none of the other words in the wide canon of slang terms coined to define parts of the male and female bodies and their functions bother me at all.

She still was highly attractive compared with other women I knew of her age. In fact I didn't know a single one who even remotely could compete with her on the looks front.

But inevitably things had changed.

Her breasts, which had once stuck out proudly like the buffers on the front of an old steam locomotive, were sagging. Her legs, still admirable in form, were now lined with the traces of little red veins which seemed to change like the shifting political borders on a map of Eastern Europe. She dyed her hair light brown to resemble a kind of parody of its former real appearance. Still long and silky but if left to its own devices would be heavily marked with grey.

Slight wrinkles had begun to form in the skin of her neck beneath her chin. Crows feet round her eyes. But her eyes still sparkled though. And she still had an easy natural laugh, like she did it with her whole body not just her mouth.

I thought, why do women age so much worse than men? Not all of course but as a generality they often seem to take it much worse, speaking of mere physical attributes that is. It was a cruel trick of nature I thought. Women who have the far tougher life anyway don't even have the compensation of ageing more attractively than men. Sure they live some years longer, but it's at the wrong end. They should live longer when they are twenty five, not eighty, a useless age for most.

Naked, she turned to face me, put her hands on her hips and said "Well?" There was that faint teasing smile. The way she was standing made me think of a gunfighter in a western, about to draw. I was close enough to her to see that the pupils of her eyes had dilated, the way that women do when they are aroused.

"Not now, I've got a headache" I joked. "I've got the cure" came the response.

"I'm already dressed" I protested. "I can soon fix that" she fired back.

Of course by now she'd sensed something wasn't right.

"You okay?"

"Dunno, feel a bit queasy" I lied.

"Sure you still want to go the restaurant?

"Yeah, I'll be alright"

She backed off and I watched her dress. She put on the stuff I liked as I knew she would. Just the right underwear, just the right dress, just the right shoes. Funny how little things make a big difference sometimes. As I watched her dress, this act tempted me. I found it arousing. But it wouldn't be right, not now.

I put my hand in the pocket of my jacket, felt the envelope, it was still there. We left the house and got in the car. I made an excuse and went back in, left the envelope on the table in the hall, returned to the car.

We got to the restaurant. A grand place as befits a twenty fifth wedding anniversary. Waiters poncing around us, would have wiped our arses if we'd asked them. I actually don't like that over-attentive style too much, pouring out your drink for you every time the glass fell below a certain point. It annoys me faintly. But the food was damn good though.

We talked over old times mainly. The kids, funny events in our twenty five years. How few of our friends had made it that long, most of their marriages long since having failed. Time passed rapidly as always when you are having a good time.

Near the end of the meal, the devastating question from her. "Do you still love me?" The booklet in my pocket was burning a hole in my mind as I replied "Yeah." Actually it wasn't a lie, although I felt intensely guilty at the time, as though it was.

She pulled me towards her over the table and kissed me and at that point the emotional intensity was so powerful that I almost changed my mind. It was the only moment in that day when I weakened.

It was time. I got up from the table, said I was just going to the toilet. Looking back, I surprised myself how calmly I was able to do it. As I walked away from the table, I recall that I felt the booklet in my pocket again. It still wasn't too late to back out.

Quickly now, I walked straight out of the restaurant and headed for the station. Heathrow wasn't far away on the Piccadilly line. I got on the train, sat down, pulled out the booklet from my pocket.

An air ticket to New York, one way, single, no return.

Earlier that day I had transferred half our investments, a bit over a million, to a new account in my own name. The other half plus the house, everything else she could keep, she deserved it. I just had my million and the clothes I stood in.

I got on the plane and I tried to picture her panic when I went missing. I hated myself doing it this way but I had made the decision only about two days before. I didn't have the guts to say anything, I just wanted to disappear.

It was a cold wet night and I was leaving England. I recalled in my mind the letter I had left on the hall table for her.

Dear ---

I am going. I have taken only half our investments. Everything else is yours. You've been good to me over the years and I thank you for that. Hope you've enjoyed our life together, I know I did but now I have to move on.

Love ---

The plane had taxied to the beginning of its take off run. I heard, felt, the engines build up power prior to the pilot letting her blast off along the runway, desperate to lift off. I knew how the plane felt.

I did not know what I would do next, but I would think of something.