That made it worse.
"Ethan pays most of the expenses."
"He handles all the annoying stuff."
"Cars, repairs, travel, documents, bills."
"If something breaks, Ethan handles it."
"If something gets screwed up, Ethan calls somebody."
"If I have to go somewhere, he figures it out."
"I barely even know our internet login."
Megan said:
"Rachel."
"What?"
"You're basically saying you don't love your husband."
"You love customer service."
There was silence.
Then Rachel laughed.
And said the sentence I would remember word for word for years.
"As long as the subscription works, why cancel it?"
Megan laughed too.
Not loudly.
Awkwardly.
But she laughed.
I stood outside my own house holding an expensive watch and thought:
Wonderful.
Eight years of marriage.
I am Netflix with a driver's license.
My first impulse was immediate and violent in the emotional sense, though not physically violent.
I wanted to open the door.
Walk into the kitchen.
Put the watch on the counter.
Ask whether the premium subscription included roadside assistance or whether that required an upgrade.
I wanted to ask how many stars she planned to give me.
Whether I had failed a service-level agreement.
Whether I should send a satisfaction survey.
My fingers tightened around the door handle.
Then something stopped me.
Our anniversary was five days away.
Rachel had been talking about it for weeks.
The restaurant.
The evening.
The possibility of taking Monday off afterward.
And especially the gift.
She did not know exactly what I bought.
But she suspected I had listened when she showed me the watch.
Suddenly my anger changed shape.
Not disappeared.
Focused.
I quietly eased the front door shut.
Walked back to my car.
Placed the watch on the passenger seat.
Sat behind the wheel.
For nearly five minutes, I did nothing.
Then I looked at the black box.
"You and I," I told it, "are going back to the store."
I almost returned it immediately.
Instead, I drove to a coffee shop.
Ordered something I did not drink.
Opened my laptop.
And began thinking.
The first question was not whether I would leave Rachel.
Some part of me had already answered that.
The first question was whether I was reacting to one ugly sentence or finally seeing something that had been true for a long time.
That distinction mattered.
People say cruel things while venting.
I had.
Years earlier, during a fight, I told Mark that Rachel could turn ordering takeout into a congressional hearing.
I did not want to divorce her because of it.
People exaggerate.
They say things to friends they would never say to their spouse.
If Rachel had only said:
I'm frustrated with him.
Sometimes I wonder what being single would feel like.
I might have confronted her.
Suggested therapy.
Asked what we had lost.
But she had gone further.
She had explained why she remained married.
Not love.
Convenience.
Services.
Money.
The infrastructure I provided.
I opened the notes app on my phone and wrote down exactly what I remembered before memory could alter it.
Do you even love him anymore?
I don't know.
If he disappeared I'd be overjoyed.
Why don't you divorce him?
Because right now it's convenient.
Pays most expenses.
Handles annoying stuff.
Cars, travel, documents, repairs.
As long as the subscription works, why cancel it?
I stared at those words.
Then closed the phone.
At six-fifteen, I returned home.
This time I opened the door loudly.
Keys against the bowl.
Briefcase on the floor.
"Hey," Rachel called from the living room.
"Hey."
Megan was gone.