When Maura returned to her apartment after a long day at the rally, she closed the door behind her as quietly as possible and stepped through to the dark living room, passing by the triptych of Ben’s sketches on the wall, like postcards from her life. Nina had adored the images, she nearly cried at the sight, despite the fact that Maura’s surprise had been upstaged by her proposal.
When Maura turned toward the kitchen, where Nina had left a single light shining, she spotted a piece of paper taped to the fridge, marked with Nina’s writing:
Hope the rally went well. There’s a cake sample inside. Trust me, you’ll love it.
I’m proud of you. Xo
Maura didn’t regret her choice. She was glad she went to D.C. But she was thankful that she could always return here, to her home, and to Nina, who at least accepted what Maura had to do, if she couldn’t always understand.
Maura peered inside the fridge, where a slice of chocolate cake sat in a clear plastic carton, tempting her with the smooth curves of its frosting. When she lifted it up, she noticed another piece of paper under the box.
You were right, we don’t need an elaborate party. We just need each other. And I don’t want to wait any longer. If we’re going to argue again, I’d much rather fight with my wife.
Will you marry me on Monday at City Hall?
Maura shut the door, shocked and silently elated. She crept into the bedroom, carefully unclasping a small gold pin with two intertwined strings from the top corner of her sweater, slipping off her clothes and dropping them into the hamper. Then she gingerly peeled back the sheets covering her side of the mattress and filled the empty space in bed, already warmed by the sleeping woman who, in just two days’ time now, would become Maura’s wife.
Maura knew that her parents might have preferred a church, or perhaps the lawn of a countryside estate, but a lot of what she had done in her life wasn’t exactly what her parents would have wanted. After flitting from job to job, from girlfriend to girlfriend, at least she was finally staying put, getting herself properly hitched, and to a woman her parents genuinely liked. （“Nina seems like she has a good head on her shoulders,” her father had said after they’d met.）
And Maura was actually quite pleased to have the ceremony at City Hall. The occasion didn’t feel quite as overbearing without the long walk down the aisle or kneeling in front of the altar. And Maura never saw herself as the type to have a conventional wedding anyway.
The civil ceremonies were performed inside the Marriage Bureau, a large gray edifice surrounded by an array of municipal buildings in the middle of downtown Manhattan. Immigration services, the IRS, and the district attorney were all housed within a one-block radius of the New York Marriage Bureau, but its closest neighbor was the Health Department, where the city’s birth and death certificates were filed. Maura found this oddly fitting. The Health Department recorded the beginnings and endings of life, while just next door, couples vowed to support each other through everything in between.
Inside, Maura thought the Marriage Bureau felt like a fancier DMV, with long couches lining one wall, a row of computers against the other, and large electronic screens mounted overhead, where couples looked to see their assigned number displayed, signaling that it was their turn to be wed in the private room in back. The 24-hour waiting period between obtaining a marriage license and performing the marriage ceremony may be waived with proof of an expiring string, read a poster near the entrance.
Maura could tell that Nina had been slightly distressed by the kitschy kiosk at the front, a small boutique hawking touristy “NYC” paraphernalia alongside last-minute wedding staples like flowers, veils, even rings. Perhaps, for a fleeting moment, Nina had even regretted her uncharacteristic impulsiveness that had brought them both here today.
But everywhere they turned, they saw love. Men in tuxedoes and women in gowns, young twenty-somethings in jeans and baseball caps, a handful of tulle-draped toddlers running amok. A few other couples had come alone, like Maura and Nina had, but most arrived with an entourage of guests, their cameras filling the hall with flashes.
Nina looked simple and elegant in cream-colored lace, while Maura had opted for a light gold dress with a bit more shimmer.
“I think you might be the most beautiful bride in here,” Nina said to her, touching her cheek.
After their number appeared on-screen, Maura and Nina took their places before the officiant, a balding man with a mustache and glasses, practically swallowed whole by his baggy brown suit, who approached each and every ceremony with the benevolent energy of a man who performed only one of them per day, instead of dozens. The couple in line behind them—a woman in a red floral dress with a crown of flowers in her hair and a man in a matching red tie—had graciously agreed to bear witness, standing side by side, their hands linked together by two intertwined pinkies.