By the time I decided to end things with S, we'd been friends for 20 years, and a couple for nearly three: the first one, blissful; the second, puzzling; the third, what the heck am I still doing?

My decision made, I anguished over how to break things off. My inner demon suggested shooting off an email. Keep in mind, this is a guy who for my birthday, gave me a set of those huge, ugly bed rests with the arms that college kids like. One turquoise velour, the other brown canvas. For my beautifully serene and spare blue-gray bedroom. Because he was never comfortable watching TV there. (Note: These now look lovely in my daughters' dorm rooms.)

But I had to remember that first year too — how he had magically appeared in my life when I needed him the most, how he had eased the pain of Ex's remarriage, how he had so engaged my daughters on all our many vacations, how much I had enjoyed being a part of his family. No, an email simply wouldn't do. As much as I hate hate HATE confrontation, a confrontation it had to be.

So naturally, I stalled. I was busy with travel for work; he was busy traveling for play: golf trips, ski weeks, ski weekends.

And as our every weekend together routine turned into once a month, I sort of figured the relationship might just atrophy on its own into oblivion.

No such luck.

A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. So I told him that while we'd had a good run, I thought that as a couple, we had run out of steam.

"So, we're not steamy?" was his rejoinder.

Sadly, no.

Robert Frost famously wondered if the world would end in fire or ice. I've always loved (and agreed with) the line:

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

No steam, no fire, no more desire.

And this is how our world ended.