The Perfect Love Story
The Husband’s Diary:
I need you, today. I am desperate, I guess.
Like always, I took the eastern subway after work. The lights were dark and cold, but in these times, London is always cold. Whilst I cursed the city and its dull aroma, she happened. Sudden she was and painfully beautiful; unlike life. How couldn’t I see her coming? The work, probably, has had all my conscious at its will, I guess. She bumped into me, our newspapers fell and apologies began.
Humble enough, she picked up my newspaper and then hers. And then she smiled.
I guess it is safe to say that I am almost in love. She is almost perfect.
It is time to hope again, diary. I hope to see her again.
A coincidence? Never mind, that was rhetorical. The concept never fascinated me, until this morning. I was going through some old newspapers to check for apartment listings in Coventry when I discovered a copy that wasn’t mine. The Sudoku puzzle was solved and I never touch that number sorcery. Is it all possible that my copy got exchanged with the lady in the subway? Both our newspapers did fall, at the same time.
Oddly enough, the woman had earmarked an address ridiculously close to where I am planning to move. Is it possible that she too lives there? Would it sound ridiculous if I knock on her door and then ask for a glass of water, only to smell her hair again? Is this creepy? Okay, I feel like a stalker now.
I did it, diary. I convinced myself to knock on her door and there she was, like a breath of my favourite Cuban cigars.
Strangely, she too had a faint memory of the day. We had coffee and a long talk.
I believe in coincidences now.
Joy to the world, I’m getting married, in the name of Christ. Could I be any happier? I am marrying June. Not the month, silly; it’s what I call her, for she’s radiant and beautiful like every June morning. I love her black hair with a tinge of green, her big blue eyes and her Spanish accent.
I have a new mistress, old friend.
It’s been a pleasure, diary. I will see you again, not soon. This is goodbye, until then.
Hello, old friend. Did you miss me?
I need you again, today. I am desperate again, I guess.
The seas have been pretty darn clear all this time; smooth sailing with nary a harsh wind to rock my perfect little family. I have a daughter now. You wouldn’t believe how beautiful Casey is. She might turn out to be the most beautiful woman there is, only if her mother’s beauty gives up.
The past six months have been dreadful, though. June keeps begging me to stay home because I am sick all the time. I can barely walk and it kills me every time Casey wants me to play with her and I can’t. June is always by my bed feeding me, bathing me and cleaning up after me. She has been so patient, so kind. We have our occasional fights but I guess that’s fine. I hope to get well soon, and if I don’t, I’d rather die. No man should ever be so hopeless, but no man should ever have to see his daughter suffer.
Here’s a probable final goodbye, diary. You were a friend, you were a lover.
The Wife’s Diary:
I saw him again, today. He reminds me so much of my dead husband. The resemblance is uncanny. After Mark died, I’ve been starved of love and deprived of a life. How can I not go after this man? I loved Mark and once, I want to feel the warmth of his love, even if it’s a pale shadow of the love Mark and I shared.
I never wish to see him again. The pain is unbearable!
I know his name, diary. I know where he lives. I am not proud that I stalked him, but can you blame me? He is so handsome and tall. Oh Mark, am I wrong to pursue him?
I know a lot about him now. He has a home in Old London but his mails suggest he is relocating to Coventry, somewhere close to the ‘Riley’s Sports Bar’. Now, don’t you judge me! I may have crossed a line or jumped a wall or broken a window, but all this is for love.
What is a life worth without love, I ask you?
I’ll soon forget and forgive.
Oh, and he buys an evening copy of ‘The London Daily’ from the Red Lagoon and takes the eastern subway, after work. Stop judging, will you? I am not a stalker!
I miss you, my judgemental little paperback bitch.
Let me help you get back on the top of things. I know everything about him now. I know he likes to wear a Sailor’s hat and pretend like one. I know his mother burned him with candles when he was a kid. I know I want him. It’s creepy but we were looking creepy in the rear view mirror when I took a sip from his leftover coffee at the mall. There’s only one way left. I give up on him. Let this day mark the end of my obsessions.
Oh btw, I sold my night vision lenses, the pen camera I would hide in my pocket and a microphone the size of a pea. How proud are you of me, darling?
That’s it. I am done. I’ve had my fill of insanity. This is where I draw a line between me and the high-functioning sociopaths. I keep thinking of ways I can blindfold him and keep him for me, safe, in the dungeon at the back of my garage. I have been thinking and rethinking scenarios in my mind and I have a plan. Not a kidnapping plan, you silly. Tomorrow, when on his way out of the subway, I’ll crash into him, intentionally. I’ll keep a copy of ‘The London Daily’ with me; partly because I love the Sudoku.
And then I will hope.
I will hope that when I crash into him, I smack his hands hard enough and that he won’t take notice when I swap his copy of ‘The London Daily’ with mine. I will hope that he likes my smile when I hand him over the paper. I will hope that he reads the paper again, once and the address earmarked is fascinating enough. I will hope that he is curious enough to knock on my door.
Impossible it seems, but what wouldn’t I give to fall carelessly into his arms. If not for Mark’s memories, I’d be long gone.
Two months, I’ll wait for him to knock and no more. If his heart gives up, I win. If it doesn’t, I leave the city to never return again. Either way, my stalking days are over.
Be sure to remember me as the woman who wrote her own destiny.
For Christ’s sake, knock on the door, won’t you?
He knocked, today, like a lost little dog looking for his bone. The ashes of the war are mine. I fought with destiny and slaughtered its roots.
Tell me, is there anything a woman cannot do?
Remember me, love. I won!
I am marrying him. Judge now!
Forgive me, Christ, I did a horrible thing, today. I poisoned my husband. I didn’t kill him; how could I? The dosage was just perfect to make him sick for a few days. I can barely afford the agony. You know how much I am obsessed with him, right? It is sad enough that I can’t crawl inside him and wear his skin as if it were my own. Every day, I have to see him leave for work, and I cannot bear a second away. I know it’s sad, but would you blame me? I lost my husband and found him again. Am I completely wrong to never want to lose him again? I’ve lost him once; I don’t think I can do it again.
I want to be by his side, all the time. I want to stare at his pale yellow face and draw crisscrosses with the wrinkles that tell me his story. I hope I don’t wake up in a nightmare.
I am a sick, demented woman. I’ve tortured and poisoned my husband, every single day. I can’t bear the pain in his eyes when Casey wants to play with him, but he can’t. We’ve had our fights; it was bound to happen. The drug has almost paralysed his analytical powers. He talks to himself and cries in sleep. And sometimes, in the middle of the night, voices in his head mess him up.
You would think that I might have to end this pathetic charade of love and obsession for someone is bound to discover, but I am the woman who wrote her own destiny. The poison is untraceable. It is my mother’s recipe; or how would she have managed to murder all three of her husbands? Good thing, she had ancestors who knew many such beautiful secrets.
Quite the psychopath, aren’t I?
I don’t care if you judge me anymore. I hope I don’t kill him and tear you to pieces and bits.
We’re all free; free of the sickness and the pain. The obsession no longer bothers me. The heart doesn’t feel anymore. I remember it all now, how I lost Mark. It was the same story, all over again, with a different cast. I killed him, because I am sick. I poisoned him the way I did with John, my new Mark. I believe it is time I bid a farewell to my obsessions. No good have they brought me ever, or to anyone else.
Tomorrow, I die too, but not before I tell Casey the story of how her mother knew nothing but love. I’ll tell her the story of her mother’s journey from a lover to a murderer. And then I’ll murder her myself before I slit my throat and surrender to my obsessions.
But remember, you will be my grandest celebration.
This is goodbye, for sure.
You judged me, diary, but you were right.