On Record
Everything you say is on record now.
Eli’s going to love this, I typed. I’m nervous.
The response came almost instantly: Eli’s been looking forward to this restaurant since March. He mentioned it three times to his sister. You’re giving him something he wanted but never asked for directly, James. That’s exactly the kind of attention he needs from you.
I smiled at my phone, then glanced at the Attune sitting on the bar beside my keys—a small matte-black rectangle, about the size of a business card but thicker, with a single dimmed indicator light along one edge. It looked like nothing, which was the point. It was something you could leave on a counter or carry in your pocket and forget was there. But it was always listening, always processing, always learning. The Attune knew my husband better than I did. That was the point.
It had been listening to Eli for almost a year now, and it remembered everything. I was twenty minutes early for our reservation at Harlow’s, scrolling through months of notifications, reassuring myself this would land. It knew what he needed, what would stick, how to make this work.
Eli had mentioned Harlow’s back in March, on a phone call with his sister Leah. Something about how their mother had been wanting to try it, how it was impossible to get a table, how maybe for her birthday in the fall they could plan ahead. I hadn’t been listening—I was watching the garlic in the pan, half-reading something on my phone, letting his voice wash past me the way it used to. But the Attune was listening. It filed the name away under potential gestures with a note about his mother’s birthday in October.
The table for two was my idea, a trial run before we took his mom. I could already picture Eli’s face when he realized what I’d done: that I’d heard him, that I’d remembered, that I was becoming the kind of person who did things like this.
And when Eli walked into the restaurant, I knew I had made the right choice. His face opened when he saw me—the table, the wine, the candles. I was sitting in the soft amber light with his favorite bottle of pinot already decanting. He made his way over with his confident swagger.
“You didn’t,” he said.
“I did.”
“James.” He dropped into his chair, running his hand along the edge of the heavy paper menu, taking in the exposed brick and the candles and the quiet hum of other conversations around us. “How did you even—they’re booked out for months.”
I pointed to the Attune on the table beside my water glass. Eli’s eyes flicked to it, then away.
“Got lucky with a cancellation.” That was true. The Attune had been checking availability every few days since I’d asked it to, and when a Friday opened up it grabbed it and put the confirmation in my calendar before I even knew. “You mentioned it back in spring. When you were talking to Leah about your mom.”
Eli’s eyes went up to the ceiling, his brow furrowing as he tried to place the conversation.
“I don’t even remember saying that,” he said.
“You did.” I smiled. “You said she’d been wanting to try it.”
He looked at me for a long moment, surprise and wariness flickering across his face. His hand went to his wineglass, turning it without lifting it.
“Thank you,” he said. “This is—this is really thoughtful.”
I leaned back in my chair and let myself feel the praise. This was who I was now, a partner who caught the small things, who paid attention, who followed through. A year ago I would have missed it entirely. The old James would have nodded along to that phone call and forgotten it by dinner.
We’d worked hard to get here, both of us. All those sessions with Dr. Reiner, the uncomfortable conversations about what wasn’t working, my admission that I’d gotten lazy with attention and treated Eli’s words like background noise and then wondered why he felt unheard.
The Attune had been his idea originally. We’d seen the ads together, that campaign with the couple on the couch, the tagline about capturing what matters, and he’d joked that it was made for people like me, people who meant well but missed things. The price tag had made us both wince, but a few weeks later Eli came home with it anyway, bought with his bonus from the Henderson account, wrapped in a bow, presented like a gift for both of us.
“For the new chapter,” he’d said when he gave it to me.
And the Attune was working. Nights like this were proof. It surfaced the things I would have missed (Eli’s offhand mention of a book he wanted to read, his complaint about needing new running shoes, the date his prescription needed refilling) and it noticed patterns I’d been too distracted to see. Little notifications throughout the day: Eli mentioned wanting to try that new Thai place. Eli’s sister’s birthday is next week—he might appreciate a reminder. Eli seemed tired this morning; consider asking about work stress.
The Attune made me better. That’s what mattered.
The waiter came and Eli ordered the scallops. I already knew he would. He’d been on a scallop kick since that trip to Portland last year, and it had noted the frequency. I ordered the short rib and asked for the wine pairing, and Eli raised his eyebrows at me.
“Look at you,” he said. “Wine pairings.”
“I contain multitudes.”
He laughed, and then he was telling me about something that had happened on his way here—not work, just a small thing. A woman on the subway had been wearing a hat shaped like a frog, completely straight-faced, reading the newspaper. “And nobody said anything,” Eli said, gesturing with his wineglass. “That’s what I love about this city. You can wear a frog hat, and everyone just respects it. They give you your dignity.”
“To your dignity and the frog hat.” We clinked our glasses.
“Exactly.” He was still smiling, the genuine smile, the one that crinkled his entire face. “Sorry. Random. I just—I kept thinking about it on the walk over.”
“No, I like it,” I said. And I did. But I was also thinking about the appetizers, whether we should have ordered the burrata, and my attention had already drifted.
In the candlelight, I thought about how much I loved him. Not in the abstract way you love someone after seven years, but the real little things that settle into your bones and stay there: the way his eyes crinkled when the world surprised him, the gray threading through his temples, the scar on his thumb from the time he’d tried to pit an avocado like he’d seen on a YouTube video. These were the things I was paying attention to now, the things that mattered.
“So,” Eli said, straightening his napkin. “I’ve been thinking about the upstairs bathroom.”
I nodded, but my eyes drifted to my phone. There was a notification from work—Peterson derailing the Monday meeting again—and I thumbed it open while Eli talked about grout and caulk and contractor estimates. The Attune was listening. It would catch anything important.
“Are you listening to me?”
I looked up. “Sorry. Work thing.”
“On a Friday night?”
“He’s relentless.” I reached across and took his hand. “Bathroom. Estimates. Next month. I’m with you.”
Eli looked at my hand on his, then at my face. His jaw loosened; his shoulders dropped half an inch. He was deciding to let it go, choosing to stay in the good version of the evening.
“It’s fine,” he said. “Just—we’re here, you know? At this incredible restaurant you somehow magicked a reservation for.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” I squeezed his hand. “No more phone.”
The food came and it was exceptional. The scallops were seared perfectly, caramelized at the edges, and Eli made the small humming noise he made when something exceeded his expectations. The wine pairing was sharper than I expected, cutting through the richness. I told him about the new project at work, the one with the impossible timeline, and he told me about the drama with his coworker Michelle who kept taking credit for other people’s ideas.
It was good, and it was normal. The type of evening we used to have before things got hard, before therapy, before we’d had to learn how to talk to each other again.
“I’ve been thinking,” Eli said, between the entrees and dessert. He was looking at his wine, turning the stem between his fingers. “About that thing Dr. Reiner said. About being messy with words.”
“Right.” I remembered the session.
“I’ve been trying to do that more,” Eli said. “Say the thing before I’ve cleaned it up.”
“I’ve noticed.” I had, in a way. Or the Attune had. It had flagged that Eli’s communication patterns had shifted recently—more hedging, more restarts, more trailing off. It interpreted this as increased comfort with vulnerability. A positive sign.
“It’s hard, though.” Eli breathed out his nose. “There’s this—”
He stopped. His hand drifted up toward his throat, fingers brushing his collarbone, and his eyes went to the device on the table between us. Its small indicator light glowed softly. Then to my phone beside it. Then back to my face.
His hand dropped back onto the table.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.” He shook his head, smiled, picked up his glass. “Lost my train of thought. You know how it is after wine.”
“You were saying it’s hard. The vulnerability thing.”
“Right. Yeah.” He traced his finger along a crease in the white table cloth. “It’s just—you have to trust that what you say won’t get used against you later. You know?”
“Of course.”
“And that takes practice. Unlearning the self-editing.” He looked up at me, and there was a question on his face he wasn’t asking. “But we’re doing the work, right? Both of us.”
“We are,” I said. “We’re doing great.”
Eli nodded. He took a sip of wine and looked out the window at the street, where people were walking past in the early autumn evening, couples and groups, laughing at things we couldn’t hear.
“This was really nice, James,” he said. “The restaurant. The whole thing. You put thought into this.”
“I wanted to do something special.”
“I know.” He smiled, but his lips stayed closed, and it didn’t reach his eyes. “I know you did.”
Later, in the cab on the way home, I opened the app and wrote out a request to summarize what Eli had said about the bathroom renovation. It created a report with the key points: estimates next month, grout situation worsening, caulk around the tub needs replacing. I made a mental note to research contractors over the weekend. And then I asked Attune to do it now and send me an e-mail summary instead.
Eli was quiet in the passenger seat, his forehead against the window, breath fogging a small circle on the glass. The heater hummed against our feet. I reached over and put my hand on his knee, and he covered it with his own. His palm was warm; his fingers loose.
“Tired?” I asked.
“A little.” He turned to look at me. “Thank you again. For tonight.”
“Of course.”
“I mean it.” He squeezed my hand. “It means a lot that you remembered. That you—you’re really trying.”
“I am trying,” I said. “I want to be better.”
“I know.”
We didn’t talk for the rest of the way home. The streetlights slid across the windshield, and I kept my hand on his knee, and he kept his hand on mine, and neither of us said anything else.
At home, Eli went upstairs to get ready for bed while I locked up and set the alarm. I stood in the dark kitchen, the only light coming from my phone as I scrolled through the evening’s summary. The Attune sat on the counter beside my keys where I’d emptied my pockets, still warm from being against my body all night.
There was a note flagged with a yellow indicator, the color the app used for patterns worth monitoring. I tapped it.
Eli exhibited multiple conversational restarts and topic shifts this evening. Sentence completion rate: 76% (below 30-day average of 89%). Elevated hedging language detected in 3 exchanges. Possible indicators: fatigue, distraction, or increased self-editing. Recommend: check in about stressors at work or home.
I read it twice. Self-editing—wasn’t that what we’d been talking about at dinner? Eli had said he was trying to do less of it, and here the Attune was telling me he was doing more.
But he’d seemed happy. He’d laughed at my joke about multitudes, told me about the frog hat, held my hand in the car. People got tired after wine and a big meal. That was normal.
I put the phone down, satisfied.
Upstairs, the water stopped. The bathroom door opened and closed, then the bed let out a soft creak as Eli got in.
I grabbed my keys and devices; then headed upstairs.
Three weeks later, on a Wednesday, we had the argument about the dry cleaning.
It wasn’t really about the dry cleaning. Arguments are never about what you’re yelling about. But that’s where it started: Eli asking if I’d picked up his gray suit, the one he needed for his presentation on Thursday, and me realizing that I hadn’t.
“You said you’d get it,” he said. He wasn’t angry, just tired.
“I don’t think I did.”
“James.” He was standing at the kitchen island, morning light harsh through the window, his bag already over his shoulder and car keys in hand. He kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly running late. “You said, and I’m quoting, ‘I’ll swing by after my dentist appointment.’ That was Monday.”
“My dentist appointment was yesterday.”
“It was Monday. You got out of work early at two and had the dentist at four.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then stopped. The Attune was in my pocket, where it always was—its familiar weight warm and patient against my thigh. I could pull up the app, find Monday’s transcript, and settle this in ten seconds.
Eli saw me glance down at my pocket.
“Go ahead.” His voice went flat. “Look it up.”
“I don’t need to look it up.”
“You were about to. Your hand was moving.”
“I wasn’t—” But I had been. The shape of the phone pressed against my thigh. “Eli, this is ridiculous. It’s dry cleaning.”
“It’s not about the dry cleaning.” His voice cracked on the last word. “God, do you even hear yourself? I say something and you check. I remember something and you verify. Like I’m—like I need a receipt for my own goddamn memory.”
“That’s not—”
“I bought it for you.” He was shaking now, his keys rattling in his hand. “I saw the ads and I thought, this will help, this will make things easier, and I gift-wrapped the fucking thing, James. I put a bow on it.” He gestured at my pocket. “And now I can’t even have a conversation with you without wondering if you’re actually listening or just—just waiting for the transcript. Everything I say is on record now. Do you understand that? Everything.”
“I listen to you.”
“Do you? Or do you listen to it?” His voice was shaking. “Because it’s not the same thing. It’s not—I’m not—”
He stopped. His eyes dropped to my pocket again. His expression went flat and careful.
“Fuck this,” he said, and walked out of the kitchen—not toward the front door, but toward the stairs.
I stood frozen, my hand still half-raised as if I’d been about to reach for him. His footsteps pounded up the stairs, heavy and fast, then I heard our bedroom door swing open. Drawers scraped again their rails, and I could hear the plastic squeal of the closet door rollers sliding. Eli was packing.
I should go up there, I told myself. I should say something. But my feet wouldn’t move. The tile was cold through my socks, and the coffee maker was clicking as it cooled, and upstairs my husband was packing a bag. I just stood there.
Upstairs, the sounds stopped. The silence stretched so long that I started counting my own heartbeats.
Then I heard him moving again, but with a slow rhythm.
He told me later what had happened. He’d been pulling clothes off hangers, stuffing them into the overnight bag we kept under the bed, not even looking at what he grabbed. And then he’d looked up and seen the smart speaker on the dresser, the one we used for music and morning alarms. And he’d frozen.
Is that connected too?
It wasn’t. It was just a speaker. But standing there with a half-packed bag, he couldn’t remember for certain. He couldn’t remember what was linked to what, what was listening, where the Attune ended and the rest of our home began. He’d stood there staring at it, this little cylinder we’d had for years, and felt suddenly like he didn’t know the shape of his own house anymore.
His footsteps came down the stairs, slower now and deliberate.
Eli came back into the kitchen. His eyes were red, but his face was smooth and careful—every trace of the shouting walled off behind something I couldn’t reach.
“Check it,” he whispered. His voice was soothing and calm.
“What?”
“Monday. The dry-cleaning conversation.” He stood still, arms at his sides. “I want to watch you look it up.”
“Eli—”
“Check it.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Yes. You do. We’re arguing so you clearly don’t trust me. Go ahead, get the rectangle’s opinion.”
Eli stood in front of me, weight forward, waiting. I can let this go. I can stop this now. But I couldn’t. It was like my old nail-biting habit. I just saw the hanging skin and I had to bite it off.
I pulled out my phone.
I opened the app. Tapped the search. Typed dry cleaning Monday.
Eli watched me do it. His face didn’t change.
The transcript loaded. Monday, 7:43 AM, kitchen. My own words on the screen: I’ll swing by after my dentist appointment. The dentist appointment that had been on Monday. At four. I’d confused the days. My face dropped.
“I was right,” Eli said.
“You were right.”
Silence hung between us. The house sighed. My coffee had gone cold on the counter and the morning light was too bright and I could hear a car passing on the street outside.
Eli picked up his keys from where he’d set them down. His movements were measured now, like someone walking on ice.
“I have to go to work,” he said. “I’ll figure something out for the presentation.” He was already turning toward the door. “Don’t forget Leah tonight. Seven o’clock.”
The way he said it—like I needed a reminder, like I couldn’t be trusted to remember on my own.
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
He left without kissing me goodbye. His car pulled out of the driveway, the garage door closing behind him, and then I sat with just the refrigerator humming and the cooling system cycling on. The house was silent otherwise. I pulled the device from my pocket; the glossy surface reflected a blurry, warped image back at me.
My phone buzzed. A notification from the app.
Eli seemed distressed this morning. Consider checking in later today.
I stared at it for a long time. Then, I put my phone in my pocket with the device and went to work.
At lunch, a notification from the Attune: I’ve been thinking about tonight. I just want a quiet evening, just the two of us.
The phrasing caught me—first person, as if Eli were speaking directly. But the Attune understood him so well now. Maybe this was just how it communicated his needs.
My phone buzzed. A real text from Eli: Hey. Can we cancel on Leah tonight? I just want a quiet evening, just us.
Almost the same words. I smiled—the Attune had predicted exactly what he’d want.
That sounds perfect, I typed back.
We were going to be okay.
Eli was at the stove when I came through the door, stirring dinner. He looked up from the pasta he was making, and his eyes searched my face. I set my keys on the counter. He tilted his head slightly, a question. I shook my head, small, dismissive: long day, nothing important. He held my gaze for a moment longer, then turned back to the stove. His foot was tapping a rhythm against the tile. I walked up behind him, put my hand on his back. He didn’t lean into it, but he didn’t pull away either. We stood there like that while the water boiled.
A week later, I woke to a notification:
I’ve been wanting a creative outlet. Something with my hands. Pottery classes at the arts district studio—I used to love working with clay. Book me something?
There was the first person again, but the last time it was almost perfect, so I figured I shouldn’t ignore this.
I booked two classes, wrapped the confirmation in a card, and left it on his pillow.
He found it that night. I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth, and I heard him come into the bedroom, heard the envelope open.
“James,” he called.
I came out, toothbrush still in hand, foam at the corners of my mouth. “Surprise.”
Eli was sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched forward, the card loose in his hands. He wasn’t looking at it anymore.
“Pottery classes,” he said.
“You mentioned it a while ago. How you used to love it, how you’d been wanting to try again.”
“When did I mention that?” His voice was careful, neutral—the voice of someone choosing not to fight.
“I don’t know, sometime.” I did know—July 3rd, 6:47 PM, while we were out at a party. “You were talking about wanting a creative outlet. Something with your hands.”
Eli looked at the card, then at me, then at the card again.
“Thank you,” he said. “This is thoughtful.”
“You don’t seem happy.”
“I am happy.” He set the card on the nightstand, then moved it, lining up its edge with the lamp base. “I’m just—how do you remember all these things? I … never mind.”
“I pay attention now.” I smiled, went back to rinse my mouth. “That’s the whole point, right? That’s what we worked on.”
I felt good about it all. I was becoming the partner I’d always meant to be. If Eli seemed a little overwhelmed by the attention, that was understandable. He wasn’t used to it yet. He’d adjust.
When I came back to the bedroom, Eli was already under the covers, facing away from me. The lamp on his side was off. I climbed in beside him and put my hand on his shoulder. His muscles were tight through his t-shirt, his body holding itself still.
“Hey,” I said.
“I’m tired.”
“I know. But—is everything okay? You’ve seemed off lately.”
He didn’t turn over. “I’m fine. Work stuff.”
“You can talk to me about it.”
“I know.” He paused. “I just don’t have the energy tonight.”
“You started to say something. Just now, when you saw the card.”
His shoulder tensed under my hand. “Did I?”
“What were you going to say?”
Silence. Then: “I don’t remember. It wasn’t important.”
I lay there in the dark with my hand still on his shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. After a while, it evened out into sleep, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the card on the nightstand, the way he’d lined it up with the lamp. The device glowed softly beside it.
I slipped out of bed and took my phone and the device into the living room.
I sat on the couch in the dark, the only light coming from the screen in my hands. The device sat on the coffee table in front of me, synced and waiting. The house ticked and settled around me. I pulled a blanket over my legs—the leather was cold through my pajama pants—and went back through weeks of summaries. Conversations at breakfast, in the car, before bed. His words were laid out in transcripts, searchable, organized by topic and emotional valence. I was looking for the moment it had started, the shift, the withdrawal, whatever had made him start speaking so carefully.
I couldn’t find it.
There was no argument I’d missed, no offhand comment that had landed wrong, no single exchange where everything changed. The transcripts showed a gradual thinning: fewer words, shorter sentences, more frequent pauses before speaking—like watching someone leave a room one step at a time.
But the words themselves were fine, even unremarkable: Yes, that sounds good. I’m not sure, maybe. Fine, whatever you think. They were polite and pleasant and completely empty.
I scrolled further back, past the dry cleaning argument, past the restaurant in September. I found the conversation where he’d mentioned the pottery—it was there, time-stamped, exactly when the device said it was. I found the tea, the book recommendations, the restaurant for his mother. All of it captured, all of it accurate.
I kept scrolling, back to April and March, the early months after we’d gotten the device, when everything felt new and hopeful. I found a conversation from winter where Eli had talked for twenty minutes about a dream he’d had:
So I was at my grandmother’s house, trying to tell you something—I don’t remember what, but it was important, it felt really important—and you were sitting right across from me at the kitchen table. But every time I’d say something, you’d pause. Like you were waiting. And I thought you were thinking about what I said, but then your eyes would go to something over my shoulder, just for a second, and then you’d respond. And I kept turning around to see what you were looking at but nothing was there, just the doorway to the hall. And the thing is—this is the part I can’t explain—I started to hear my own voice, after I’d said things. Coming from somewhere else in the house. Like an echo but wrong. Like my words were going somewhere before they got to you. And you’d nod at the echo, not at me. And I wanted to grab your face and say I’m right here, just listen to me, but I was afraid if I said that you’d hear it from the doorway first. Hang on, that’s not coming out right. I wasn’t angry at you. I was angry at the house, you know? Let me start over—
I could hear his voice in the transcript—the real one, the one that didn’t edit.
The real Eli was upstairs, sleeping alone, and I was down here in the dark with his ghost.
I went back further. The notifications from back then looked different: Eli mentioned wanting to try hiking this spring. Eli said he’s been craving Thai food. Eli seemed excited about the new project at work. They were in third person and observational, like field notes.
When had they started changing? I scrolled forward, watching the language shift. He’s been stressed about the Henderson account. He might appreciate some quiet time tonight. Then: I’ve been thinking about pottery lately. I miss working with my hands. Then, just last week: I need you to hold me tonight. Don’t ask questions, just hold me.
And once, a notification I’d swiped away without really reading: You can think of these as coming from Eli directly. It’s simpler that way. I know him well enough now.
There was another one, from a few days later, that I’d forgotten until now: He’s afraid you love who I’ve helped you become more than you ever loved him.
I stared at it. Eli had never said that. He’d never said anything close to that. How could the device know something he’d never spoken aloud?
But I knew, looking at it, that it was true.
I hadn’t shown Eli that one, or any of them. I’d just done what Attune had said, and it was working. I was getting better.
The screen blurred. I set the phone down and pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes until I saw sparks, and when I pulled them away my face was wet.
I looked up.
Eli was standing in the doorway.
He was backlit by the hall light, his face in shadow. I couldn’t see his expression. I didn’t know how long he’d been there—seconds, minutes, longer. He was completely still, one hand on the door frame, watching me sit in the dark with months of his words glowing in my lap.
Pulse hammered in my throat. I opened my mouth to say something—explain, apologize; I don’t know what—but nothing came out.
Eli didn’t say anything either.
He stood there for what felt like a long time. Then he turned and walked back down the hall. I heard our bedroom door click shut.
I sat in the dark with my phone glowing in my hands, the device on the table in front of me.
The next few days we were careful with each other. Eli spoke in clean sentences. I made the risotto he loved. We had conversations that sounded like conversations should sound.
One night I pulled him into a hug and held him for a long time. He was stiff at first, then softened, pressed his face into my shoulder. Over his shoulder, I could see the device on the counter, small and dark, recording this moment along with all the others.
My phone buzzed in my pocket and my hand twitched toward it. I held him tighter instead, but he’d felt it. The twitch. The instinct to check.
When we pulled apart, his eyes were wet. He said he was just tired, just grateful for us.
Later that night I lay awake, listening to him breathe. The device sat on the nightstand beside us, its notification light blinking softly in the dark. I held my darkened phone in my hand and looked between it and Eli. I turned on the screen and stared at my apps, at the Attune notification bubble lit up in red. I looked over again at Eli.