Newlywed. See also: lover, murderer, etc.

I thought of the best way to kill my new husband, Michael, on our honeymoon, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t include boiling French fry oil. Actually, it was our second honeymoon; after a budget-friendly week in Boston immediately after our wedding, we left three months later for a ten-day study abroad trip to Peru with Rutgers University. For nine days in Peru, Michael and I were inseparable. We talked for hours over coca tea, made love to the sound of a ranging river outside our window, laughed at the ways we tried to survive the freezing showers.

For the first time in our brand-new marriage, I felt like a wife. Not many of the people on the trip—my classmates and their spouses or significant others—knew each other, and we all began to get along immediately. Suddenly, this boy I’d known for years was being introduced as “Heather’s husband,” and I was saying, “This is my husband, Mike.” Though we’d been living together for almost three months since the wedding, it suddenly felt strange to go up to a hotel room with him, to come down in the morning for breakfast without blushing. It was exactly the second honeymoon we’d hoped for—until Miami.

On day ten, we arrived at a dirty, crowded Burger King in Miami International Airport before the final leg of our journey home to Philadelphia. We’d just meandered our way through a lengthy customs process, twice getting separated by miscommunications we’d both silently blamed on the other. The mess of tables and luggage and grease of this Burger King was not lifting our weary, hungry spirits.

“Let’s just get one value meal, then one more sandwich,” I offered as we neared the front of the long line. We’d perfected the cheap fast food run in college and weren’t about to stop now. Mike nodded in apparent agreement, staring up at the menu and saying nothing. “So, what do you want, babe?” I said, adjusting the straps on my heavy backpack. We were next. Mike continued to stare blankly at the menu, looking remarkably similar to the many customers behind him who were staring just as blankly at the American holding up the line.

“Next,” the grumpy woman behind the counter grunted a third time.

Mike blinked and pushed our bags up to the register. We muttered our orders—paying in dollars for the first time in over a week—and turned around to see that there were no vacant seats.

“I’ll get our drink,” I mumbled, procrastinating the task of finding a table. I eyed everyone’s burgers like a hawk. They’re almost done, aren’t they? Oh, that kid over there is not going to finish those fries; surely they’re getting up soon. Cranky travelers pushed and shoved their way around the soda lids and straws. I swung my large backpack around in defense, knocking over carry-on’s and small children who should’ve known better. Drinks in hand, I found Mike pressed into a corner, backed against the mop bucket, and we squeezed into one half of a table holding a family of four. When they glared at our intrusion, we raised our eyebrows at their indecency to take up so much space in a clearly congested room. We worked our bags safely under our chairs and shoved our hands into the white paper bags. We were starving.

“Is that your sandwich?” Mike asked as I began to unwrap my double cheeseburger. I paused and nodded, snatching up a fry. He bit the inside of his lip. “It’s bigger than mine,” he murmured.

Now, I would like to think that I am a fairly generous wife. When we serve food in our apartment, it’s a rule that the bigger serving is always Mike’s, excluding only chocolate dessert or Cream of Wheat. All week, we’d broken apart granola bars, and each time I took the smaller piece of Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip. I always let him finish my bottle of Cusquena if he drank his too fast. Was he serious?

“What.”

“It’s just—it’s—bigger than mine.” Then, he dared: “Maybe we could trade?”

It must have been that I was exhausted from travel. Or maybe it was the hundreds of people and fanny packs crowding my personal space. Or maybe it was that the beautiful days we’d spent in Peru had just vanished in the maddening way he waved his Whopper Jr. with Cheese in front of my eyes like an Incan offering.

“Here,” I spat, throwing my sandwich at him and yanking off the tomatoes from my new sandwich with overzealous aggression. (I don’t know why I did this. I like tomatoes.) Then came the visions of burning hot French fry oil, kitchen shears, and the dirty bleach water in the corner; they took over my thoughts so suddenly in malicious, unmentionable ways.

I'm not proud of it.