We were supposed to get married on an island but instead we get married in a basement. You were supposed to have a veil, I was supposed to have polka dot loafers. “Did you bring ten dollars?” the woman behind the glass asks. “Yes,” we tell her, “yes.” We were supposed to get married on a cliff overlooking crashing waves. Under the glass we pass the ten dollars. It was supposed to be flowers, awnings, tides. When the judge arrives, he’s sweating. “My eleventh today,” he says. His speaker is broken so he shouts. We were supposed to get married next to groups of friends from everywhere. Instead we are our own witnesses. We are our only now. You say I do, I say I do. We do. It’s official. We’re married downstairs. We walk out of the courthouse and see a woman pushing a bus. She’s preaching. She’s seething. She yells and yells.