I look at her.
She looks at me.
This is a bad idea.
A very bad idea.
But my brain is currently operating on tequila fumes and her perfume.
Responsible. That was the word. I used to care about responsible.
Responsible, reschmonsible.
To hell with it.
For once, I want to be the guy who does the crazy thing.
“Yeah,” I double down. “We’re getting hitched.”
Elvis—Gary, according to the name tag—finally looks up.
“Right on,” he says, deeply unimpressed. “Fill out these forms.”
He slides a clipboard across the counter. It makes a loud scraping noise that feels profound for some reason.
We fill out the paperwork one after the other, giggling like teenagers.
At one point she signs her name twice and has to cross it out, which makes her laugh harder, which makes me laugh harder, which makes Gary stare at us like we’re feral.
We hand the papers back, and Gary ushers us through a set of red velvet curtains into a small chapel with a suspiciously stained carpet that has seen things.
“Alright,” Gary says, standing behind a small podium. “You got rings?”
I freeze.
Sunshine turns to look at me in exaggerated slow motion.
I look at her hand.
Then at mine.
Then back at Gary.
I drag a hand down my face. “No. Of course we don’t.”
Gary reaches under the podium and produces a small plastic box like a magician who’s lost faith in magic.
“We sell ’em. Fifty bucks. Rhinestones. Very shiny.”
Sunshine leans toward me, stage-whispering, “Very romantic.”
I squint at the box like it personally offended me.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur quietly, just for her. “I’ll make it up to you once you’re my wife.”
She studies me like she’s trying very hard not to laugh.
Then she turns to Gary.
