Thursday, nine. She had asked for the early slot, before the renewals queue. Extended vows on Saturdays, at the posted fee. Saturdays were full into spring.
He had asked for pictures only. Nothing of their voices. She had agreed.
On the step her aunt had blessed them. He had joined in halfway through. The words came back before he knew he remembered them. The bride felt his hand loosen as they went inside.
Their notice had stood for the required period. Nothing had been said. A cloth slipped from the board above the door. NOW SERVING. The chairs came from the café, its mark burned beneath the seats. The witness with the phone was told where to stand.
The registrar said the required sentence about the room. He asked the required question twice of each. They answered once loudly, once quietly. Behind him:
09:00 license · 09:20 license · 09:40 license · 10:00 license · 10:20 license · 11:00 license
The cloth had slipped off that too.
I am present. I take what is offered and offer what is listed. I will attend, on the days and between the hours, and beyond them where the schedule is silent.
She gave back each line. Under his cuff her thumb lay on his pulse. At night she sometimes found it before she let herself sleep. He read the same vows. At attend his voice dropped half a step and stayed there.
She asked for her aunt's blessing again. The registrar put his card face down. Her aunt began. The next couple waited outside.
At the side table, the clerk entered the gifts. Amounts in the second column. Gifts without amounts in a narrower third, filled last and slowly. Somebody had given more than they had.
Thursday's stamp was wet from the renewals. He signed. She signed. Before the registrar could blot it, she laid her hand flat on the ink. She lifted her palm, then closed it.
The page was legible. The registrar let it stand. He pressed his own thumb to the pad and into the margin, beside the box for anything further. Initialed. Dated.
The witness showed her the phone. Beneath the picture was a bar of sound. Sent. She touched it.
I am present.
He turned. The witness stopped the sound.
“We said pictures,” he said.
She nodded. Her marked hand was closed between them.
He waited. She said nothing. He put his hand out for the phone.
The witness gave it to him. He removed the recording. The picture stayed. He gave the phone back, then took his wife's clean hand.
They walked past the queue. He held that hand all the way down the hall. She carried the ink in her other fist. The café marks turned inward as the chairs were stacked.
Outside it had rained on schedule and stopped early. He turned her face toward the light for a photograph.
Her phone moved against her hip. She had asked the witness for the sound first. Only for herself, she had said.
The pictures were coming through now.