The Little Black Book

(An entry in Caferati's Quick Tales contest)

That night I stole my wife's diary. Now, now… before you judge me, as you are wont to do, first hear me out.

My wife and I fell in love years ago, when life was an uncomplicated place to be in, and we lived in our own little world. But now, that place seems to have become a strange world where pigs fly and monkeys speak fluent German and the two of us cannot communicate without shouting.
We made a great couple in the beginning. Then tragedy struck and we got married. Our heads, once up in the clouds, came thudding back to ground with our noses glued stuck to the grindstone of everyday life.

Never a day went by without an argument. Suddenly I was the King Slob and she was Ms. (Always) Right.

Everyday she would lament the life she had left, for this life. And I for one could never figure out what the fuss was all about.

In this little black diary, she would write everyday stories of my many foibles, only to read them back to me, when it suited her mood. A sock left in the living room, the time I had a few drinks at her sister's wedding reception (she claims I kept referring to the groom as a ‘poor sod’ to everyone, what rubbish!), everything went into that little book of hers.

For a while, I tolerated this behaviour thinking it was just a whim, till she started threatening to publish it. If it was anyone else I'd have laughed it off, but this was my wife who was also an author of three prior published works.

I shuddered when I thought of the consequences. I'd be the laughing stock everywhere, branded leader of all chauvinistic pigs!

I decided not to take it any longer. I had a reputation to protect after all. So, one night I took her diary from under her pillow. I took it straight to the kitchen with every intention of burning it, but curiosity made me flip through the pages first.

I don’t think I was quite ready for what I found inside. Instead of a list of my (alleged) misdeeds there were pages and pages of how much she loved me and descriptions of many tender moments between us that I had all but forgotten.

I was shocked, flabbergasted, dumbstruck and appalled.As realization struck, I felt that maybe I really was a bit of a slob and probably she had been right (at least a little). And, strange as she was and as pathetic as our relationship appeared, I bet I couldn't find another human who'd love me as much.

Maybe arguing was how we communicated, who knew? I could try and be a little better, couldn't I? Maybe that little book was what had kept us together so far.

I slowly slipped that book in to its rightful place, under her pillow and went back to sleep.