Many thanxes to this person, who, in hating two-timers, has inspired this entry.

two-timer: n 1: someone who deceives a lover or spouse by carrying on a sexual relationship with somebody else 2: a person who says one thing and does another

When he had woken up this morning and dragged himself out of bed, Ricky had suddenly feared it would not be a very kind day. So far, nothing had proven otherwise.

He had found out that he had misread the project schedule, missing the deadline and having to endure his boss' hour-long lecture as the result. Next, he had received a call from his bank, informing that someone had used his credit card number to try to purchase some 1,500-buck item on the internet. Still far from over, he had also had to redo his performance appraisal, the same boss believing he had not given it enough thoughts. And finally, he had had to work overtime because -- as always -- his client had waited until 5 PM to report a bug to be fixed and ready for testing first thing in the morning.

Now, home at last, he sat down in front of his personal computer and tried to deal with unread personal email messages -- literally hundreds of them, that was what you got from subscribing to too many mailing lists -- and eat his hastily prepared dinner -- the usual instant noodles.

It won't be long now. He had been telling himself that lately. Soon he would marry his fiancee and have a wife to look after him and the house. Not this small bachelor apartment that he called home, of course. With their combined income -- and their new marital status -- they could finally afford a much more decent one.

Ricky grunted and grumbled as he waded through the seemingly endless list of messages. Heated mailing-list discussions, most of which he did not even bother to read and simply deleted; forwarded jokes and hoaxes -- many of them he had received six or seven times before from various sources; and -- like any person living in this internet era -- spammers trying to sell performance-enhancing pills, privacy protectors, dubious multi-level-marketing schemes, and God knows what else.

Just when he thought his day could not get any worse, he reached the 87th item and it did. The message was from Jerry, one of his university friends. It had a simple "Damn!" as its subject. Ricky had in fact half-expected this. Still, it did not help him take the news in stride.

The first line read, "It's confirmed. I'm sorry, dude." And immediately he knew the rest of the message.

A few days ago Jerry had sent him an email message. He had claimed seeing Ricky's fiancee's profile on a website promoting dating services. A close friend of both Ricky and Cass, Jerry was one of the few people who knew the couple were due to wed in a few months.

"It's definitely an active profile, man. Last updated about a week ago," Jerry had said. "She didn't put her real name, but it's her. The age, location, and other details match."

Jerry had gone on to explain how he had sent her a personal message, pretending to be someone else. "I'll let you know if she does reply. I asked some questions only Cass and maybe you should be able to answer. You know, stuff like which high school she went to and what her favorite books were as a kid."

Dismissing it as nothing -- it could have been some wacko trying to impersonate her -- Ricky had decided to entertain his friend and provided answers, as far as he had known, to the several personal questions asked. "I'm sure you're wrong, man. But thanks," he had added.

Now it looked as though his friend had been right. Ricky read as fast as he could and when he finished, he started to read it one more time. And one more.

There was no doubt about it. Jerry had pasted her reply in its entirety.

It was brief and straight to the point. Not only had she answered all the questions correctly -- Ricky had casually asked his wife-to-be the rest of the questions that he had not known the answers to -- the message also unmistakably bore her style of writing. Cass had always been one who paid attention to punctuation and capitalization, even in informal letters.

The message concluded with, "Sure, I would love to meet you in person. Sorry, can't give you my real name yet. Just call me LuckyScorpio, just like my profile says. Till then."

Ricky slumped in his chair. He knew there were still remote chances that it all had been a misunderstanding. But he would have to wait for Cass to explain. Owing to the his hectic day, they were yet to see and talk to each other thus far.

Ricky thought of calling her, then decided against it. He never handled anger well. He would easily say or do things he would later regret. Instead, he picked up his empty plate, stood up, and went to the kitchen. He took his time washing the utensils, trying to calm down.

Minutes later, somewhat more collected, he returned to his computer and sat down. Exhaling audibly, he opened the next unread item and continued what he had started. He was hoping somewhere down the list there would be funny jokes or other things to make him feel better.

With three unread messages left, something finally did.

"Hi there, Lucifer007," the message read. "Thank you for your swift response. To answer your question, yes, I do love sea food. That photo in my profile is kinda telling, huh? And it's such a pleasant surprise that you also listen to Cadillac Jones! Sorry for getting so excited, but I don't often find someone from Match.com who does. You know what, I think we're gonna hit it off just like that.

"Look, I gotta run now. But I promise I'll send you a much longer message. Meanwhile, why don't you tell what you're looking for in a girl. Love, BubblySlinky."

Ricky allowed himself his first smile of the day. Quickly he went through the last two messages -- both deleted -- and started composing a reply to BubblySlinky. After this, he told himself, still smiling, he would give Cass a call.

Current music: Procul Harum - A Whiter Shade of Pale
Current mood: happy