An eight month long romance ended in a church. White dress, black tie, and the father weeps with joy as he hands his daughter off. The guests smile in awe as the groom carries his beautiful new wife to the car. One day passes. They arrive in Paris. The honeymoon of her dreams with the man she loves so dearly. They laugh in the streets; they watch the Eiffel Tower twinkle from their balcony. She is happy. He is happy. The trip proceeds. She begins to notice things. Things she never saw before, in him. He is rude to the concierge and leaves a poor tip for the waiter. She notices how he takes his temper out on the door with a bottle of Dom. And she wonders how much time until he confuses her face with the door. Did she rush into something? No. She looks lovingly at her husband. Her perfect husband. It doesn’t matter that he told her she looked ugly this morning as she dressed herself, he’s perfect. Hours pass, and she watches the perfect back of his head as he stares into his phone. And when she asks what is taking his attention, he deflects, shuts down, gets angry. Her positive thoughts digress. She begins to feel it. First in the pit of her stomach, and after a week, when they step off the very large plane, she feels it all over. What began as doubt becomes an unnamable feeling. The kind that would lead to a lifetime of emptiness. A feeling she can not claim as her own. She pushes it away. Years pass, and the inkling, that feeling, is now a known fact. The marriage was a mistake, and she is not the only one who thinks it.