Rachel sat on the couch scrolling through her phone.
She looked exactly like the same woman I had kissed before work that morning.
No guilt.
No suspicion.
No idea.
"How was work?"
"Educational."
She looked up.
"What?"
"Long day."
"Oh."
That was it.
I walked into the kitchen and poured water.
Rachel followed.
"Can we order something tonight? I don't feel like cooking."
Of course.
The subscription included food logistics.
"What do you want?"
"I don't know."
She opened the refrigerator, looked inside without really looking, then closed it.
"You choose."
Naturally.
I stared at the refrigerator because it was safer than looking at my wife.
"Thai?"
"Sure."
"I'll order."
She smiled.
"You're the best."
There it was again.
A compliment that suddenly sounded like a performance review.
I ordered.
Rachel leaned against the island.
"Oh, Saturday."
"What about it?"
"The anniversary."
"Yes."
"You booked Maison Verre, right?"
"Yes."
"The one I sent you."
"Yes."
"What time?"
"Eight."
She smiled.
"Perfect."
Then her eyes narrowed playfully.
"You didn't forget anything else, did you?"
For one beautiful second, I considered answering:
Your cancellation request.
Instead, I smiled.
"Trust me."
"I am definitely not forgetting this anniversary."
Her face brightened.
She stepped forward and kissed my cheek.
"I knew you were planning something."
Technically correct.
She walked away.
I watched her return to the couch.
Two hours earlier, she had told Megan she would be happy if I disappeared.
Now she was concerned the anniversary gift might disappoint her.
Marriage really was magical.
The rest of that evening became an exercise in watching without reacting.
Rachel talked about what she might wear Saturday.
She asked whether we should use a rideshare so we could both drink.
She told me the restaurant had a chocolate dessert people were apparently obsessed with.
Then, while scrolling on her phone, she said casually:
"I saw that watch again today."
I looked over.
"What watch?"
She gave me a playful stare.
"The one I showed you."
"Oh."
"It's still gorgeous."
"Sounds serious."
She laughed.
"You remember which one?"
I held her gaze.
"Oh, I remember."
She smiled.
I smiled for a completely different reason.
That night, Rachel fell asleep within minutes.
I did not.
I lay on my back staring at the ceiling fan.
Every few minutes, the words returned.
If he disappeared.
Relieved.
Convenient.
Subscription.
I thought about the invisible history of being useful.
The winter Rachel's car battery died and I left a meeting to replace it.
The year her passport expired three weeks before Spain and I rearranged half a day to get an expedited appointment.
The four hours I spent fighting a health-insurance coding mistake because she said phone calls made her anxious.
The vacation reservations.
The tax paperwork.
The home repairs.
The midnight airport pickups.
The Saturday mornings spent taking her car somewhere because she wanted to sleep.
I had never kept score because I thought the whole point was that we were on the same side.
Apparently, one of us had been tracking benefits.
Rachel shifted beside me and stole half the blanket.
Even unconscious, I thought bitterly, the subscription was still providing.