Every entry was filled, days out. He scrolled down to the first one input and settled into his wingback chair to read, expecting some cheesy, insipid bullshit about how much better she had slept the previous night after meditating for thirty minutes over a turmeric latté in the morning. But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t that at all.

Ugh, I hope Tom doesn’t find this. He checks my phone, but I’m crossing my fingers that he won’t discover any of this, trapped in this app. He almost never speaks to me, but when he does, I feel like I’m talking to an automated machine, like I don’t exist, except when it suits him, when he wants something from me. I can’t believe I ever saw something in him aside from his greed. You know, back in the day, I loved how decisive he was, the way he craved supremacy over me. It was sexy. But he also saw me, noticed me. That doesn’t happen anymore.

And the thing is, he knows what to say, the right words to woo just about anyone. That’s what I hate most about him, this slickness. It feels like a disease. Like I’m covered in oil. Sometimes when he’s home working in that stupid man cave of an office, I want to wring his neck. Come up from behind him and garrote him.

It didn’t used to be so bad. It was good at one point, wasn’t it? I saw Joanie with Colin on Monday after that silly thing at the art gallery; they were fighting, a real argument because Colin had booked some vacation during her grandmother’s birthday. It was refreshing to see, actually. To see real emotion in both their faces as they went at each other. Of course, Joanie apologized to me afterward. She was so embarrassed. She said she’d forgotten I was even in the house, that her emotions just leaked out of her. I said it was fine, that we all have our little marital disputes, that I of course was privy to the worst of them myself.