What do you want for dinner?
I rolled my eyes as I pushed the button on the side of my phone, hearing the familiar ‘click’ as the screen locked.
‘Why do you even ask?’, I sighed, turning onto our lane after a long day at work. I knew damn well he already planned what we’d have for dinner; cheeseburgers.
Now don’t get me wrong, I love a burger as much as the next guy. But seven months. It’s been seven months of burgers for lunch and dinner (and I’ll even hear him banging around the kitchen for another fixing in the middle of the night).
Plus, he’s changed. Part of what made me fall in love with him was our shared passion for cooking; his seasonings were all from scratch, meticulously thought out and perfected. His eyes would light up, gorgeous blue and radiant when he’d excitedly discuss how he wanted to garden together, grow our own basil and jalapeños. My chili won awards, thanks to his tips. Grocery shopping was no longer a chore, but something to look forward to. Ever since he started cooking the burgers, the light in his eyes seems… dim, if that makes sense? The muscles in his face contort to make the appearance of happiness, but his eyes became void of emotion, like he’s looking past me.
I won’t always eat the burgers. In fact, I usually don’t anymore, but it took me a while to work out my own food schedule as to not hurt his feelings. It doesn’t matter what my response is, whether I say “no thanks”, suggest a restaurant or some pasta, he’ll always cook an additional burger intended for me. I’m not sure if it was the forcing down burgers for three months straight, gaining twenty-three pounds, or when the additional breakfast burger was introduced that made me put my foot down, but I did and that was that.
Except my burgers became HIS burgers. He had a strange routine of eating his burger in the other room before bringing mine, decked out with the works on a platter and with a huge smile he’d say, “Iiiiit’s burger time, baby!”.
“I’m all set babe.” I shuffled past him, feeling a sense of guilt creep in; I couldn’t help it. He looked so cute in his apron, the platter laid out before me like I was his burger queen.
“You don’t want it?” He asked, still smiling that wide grin.
“No thanks, I really can’t eat any more burgers, at least for a while. I’m sorry though, it looks incredible!”
“Oh. Well, ok then, sit down and enjoy your show!” Though his eyes seemed vacant, his smile somehow brightened even further as he retreated back into the kitchen.
I sat down and scrolled through Tubi for a few minutes when I heard it; a sizzling. A loud buzz that I almost mistook for a cicada before I realized it was the sound of meat cooking on the grill.
‘Is he cooking another fuckin’ burger?!’ I stood up in disbelief. How was he still hungry, is he deficient in something? There’s no way this is healthy and it isn’t the first time I’ve been worried for him; he’d been to the doctor after I scheduled an appointment and begged, yet all the tests came back inconclusive and everything had been normal. There had to have been some kind of misteak.
This has gone well beyond respecting what he likes, and I love him. If any harm were to come to him, I’d never forgive myself for not stepping in. I got up, heading towards the deep fried smell and sounds of scraping to discuss getting a second opinion.
I swung the saddle door open and started to step into the kitchen, slipping on something and landing sideways onto our black and white checkerboard floor. My hand slid through a thick layer of grease as I tried to steady myself up.
“What is all this shit?”
”IIIIIIIT’S BURGER TIME, BABY!”
The thick, guttural Tom Waits-esque voice startled me so much I jumped. I looked at what was once my husband and gasped; his previously tan and calloused hands were now blotchy with dark brown and black, almost charred in some places. My gaze moved up his beefy arm, oozing grease and making a sloshy wet sound as he raised a spatula and pointed it at me.
”ARE YOU READY FOR YOUR BURGER?” It spat out, grinning a smile of chopped onions ringed with tomato lips. His cheese shirt dripped to the floor, his lettuce pants glistened with water. ”YOU GOTTA TRY THIS ONE, BABE.”
He winked at me with one pickle eye and his bun hat tipped to the side, a sesame seed falling off in the process. He turned to the griddle where a skinned human hand lay sizzling.
I scrambled up and into our bedroom, locking the door behind me. He didn’t chase me. He’s still down there cooking burgers, singing some song by Blaze Foley.
So much is going through my mind right now.., was that HIS hand on the griddle?! I thought about calling the police, but even if they believed me, they’ll probably try to do some whacky experiments on him. Or maybe even both of us. Who should I call? Where should I go? Please, if anyone is reading this, how can I help my cheeseburger husband?