December 25; dear diary. 

When I have pluck'd the rose,

speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate,

Nor set downaught in malice. Then must you speak

Of one that loved not wisely but too well;

Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought,

Perplex's in the extreme; of one whose hand,

Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away

Richer than all his tribe. 

    - Othello 
 

There are times when I know I am the luckiest man around; so far, no guy in my social circle can boast of a more lovely, charming and smart wife. She is just the right cocktail of sesitivity, sensibility, ready wit, oomph and romance. 

But more often these days, especially on nights like this when I come home early and slouch in front of the soap box, having nothing to do, I feel I am boxed in a labyrinth of lies, treachery and violence. I am sure she has affairs with the people she does business with. 

Where is the proof? Oh yes, I ask myself the same smart question. Do I have any proof? No I have never been tipped off even by her enemies about an alleged affair. I have never seen her with any man under doubtful circumstances. But then, why do I get upset when this colleague of mine, notorious for sleeping around, speaks about a mysterious woman with whom he had a one night stand, lately! Somehow, the feeling that it is her sneaks upon me

like a slow but sure tide...But I have never been a good observer, not to say a good judge of human behaviour. 

And, come to think of it, I do remember occasions when I had found her talking with him, laugh with him as if the were bosom friends - if you would pardon the pun. There were moments when  had caught her searching for an excuse - times when she would get back late from a so called meeting, and just crash on the bed. Tired, I am sure, but from what, I wonder now. 

Ah, the lights have gone out. Perfect. I just love darkness. Now, sitting here, I can see the street and the tiny lamps across the courtyard beyond, in an apartment like this. What could be going on behind those mysterious, dark walls? Would all those chaste wives of the poor, unsuspecting husbands be slaking their carnal thirst on a ' friend of husband' or the sales executive who happened to visit her the other day with a new soap or the teenager son of their neighbour... 

I used to burn with fury and frustration at the very thought Rebecca might also be doing the same thing behind my back. The same thing? Yes, am I not doing the same thing with Destiny, the divorced 30 year old whom I had met on a trip? A short affair, I had told myself, but it had grown into a full blown relationship of late. Destiny has not suggested anything, but I can see that she has already made me her man about the house and it is no longer a passing interest.  

I keep telling myself that there's a huge difference between my affair and those afflictions of Rebecca. I would toss and turn in bed, go into silent protests, pick up trivial little rows, just to provoke and get a hint from her. Never. She is very clever. But that merely goes onto prove just how sharp she is, does it? 

Whenever I brought up the subject of faithfulness, she would casually brush it aside, saying something like it's all a matter of trust and only time will tell. I would keep quiet, because I would feel a choking sensation on my chest, when I hear that. Am I doing the correct thing? Lord! 

Destiny has begun dropping hints about consummating our relationship. She needs a child, apparently. How can agree! How can I not agree! I have to decide between Rebecca and this girl. Can I tell Rebecca about Destiny? Oh, no, never! What happens to me if Destiny walks out? I just can't afford it. Am I doing the right thing? Why not, after all there's nothing wrong in seeing a woman because I am a man!  

But how about Rebecca? This womanizer friend of mine has started on another account of exploits, all about the same mysterious woman. I don't like the way he looks at me when he recounts them. It would seem they are addressed to me.Over the past few months, I have been watching Rebecca, looking for a telltale sign. I would call up her office and someone would answer that she had gone for a meeting - meeting over lunch, huh?  

It has become a cat-and-mouse game for several months now. Only difference is, if I had been a poor mouse earlier, now it's her turn. And she doesn't suspect a thing, my poor little darling of a wife. 

There, it is striking nine. She said she would be back by nine. Said it was an important presentation. I should know better. I called up her office and found out that the meeting was with the company my womanizer friend was working with...I called her I would be going out of town and would be back only tomorrow. 

I might as well get ready. I shall check if the gas cylinder in the kitchen is on. Alright. there's enough gas leaking out without giving off unwanted smell. The kitchen door? That can stay open. Will she suspect? No way! She will know there's a leak only after she switches on the power in the living room. I won't fancy being burned to death. It will be horrible. 

Now, before I leave you in the hands of death, my love, you should know that it was me who did it. You will never know why, but in the last pangs of agony, you will tearfully, lovingly wish that I was there, so I shall scrawl my name on the telephone book...bye, my love.. 

Rebecca was feeling down. The presentation was cancelled at the last moment, and Jerry suggested that they go to some restaurant, have a snack and check back on some bad debts by clients. It was already past nine, but since Robert had promised he wouldn't be back for the night, there was no hurry. Even if he was home, there was some food in the refrigerator. He would be punch drunk when he would be back. She was giving up hope on him. She had also started feeling a slight regret, but then, he was such a good guy most of the time, which made up for all those nights of sheer misery. Perhaps he needs a little more time, she thought. 

She was tired by the time Jerry and Rebecca split. It was well past midnight. All she wanted was some sleep. The car stopped in front of their apartment. She looked out of the window. A cop came up and enquired. “ You put up here?” 

She got out of the car mumbling 'yes.' 

“Something wrong?” she asked, suddenly feeling boiling iron swelling up her feet. 

“ “ Which is your apartment, miss?” Another senior cop asked. He was taking down notes. 

“ Five D.” Rebecca knew it now. 

“ Iam sorry, miss. There has been a fire.” The cop said sympathetically. “ Was that your husband in the apartment