Pageant Question: Do you think contestants with cosmetic surgery should be permitted to compete in beauty pageants? What if the contestant was in a severe accident?

"Marsha, did you not hear me?  I said I'm leaving you."  Brad stood tensely in their dining room, gripping the back of a chair.

Marsha sat, implacable, in her chair at the far end, her face a mask.  "I heard you," she murmured, "and I am furious."

"Why don't you show it?  This is one of the very reasons I'm leaving you; you never show your feelings to me.  I can't tell what you're thinking."  Brad's eyes pleaded with his wife of ten years.

A tear leaked out of Marsha's left eye and ran down her smooth cheek unchecked.  "I am horrified, and shocked beyond my ability to comprehend.  Brad, I didn't see this coming."  Her eyes blinked slowly, left, then the right.

"Get mad then, Marsha!  Show me you're angry!"  Brad's forehead creased with his frustration, his lips tight and white.

"Don't you understand, Brad?"  Marsha stood, her face white and smooth.  "I am showing my anger."

Brad's brows raised, his mouth became a tiny "o".

"Yes, Brad, this is the most my face can move."  There seemed to be a moment of concentration passing behind her eyes.  "That was sadness."  Another flicker of brain activity registered.  "That is anger."  Masha's shoulders shook for a moment and she made an odd exhalation though her porcelain face remained immobile.  "I laugh at your confusion." 

Brad's sun-speckled hand came up to his mouth, bracketed with creases.  "My God, Marsha.  What have you done to yourself?"