The vows are brief. Practical. No flourish.
Watching them, I recognize the efficiency. The way emotion has been negotiated down until nothing volatile remains.
This is what happens when risk outweighs romance.
I tell myself that makes us similar.
The thought doesn’t sit right.
I can't decide whether it's comforting or alarming.
The judge—an older woman with sharp eyes and no patience for theatrics—guides them through with clinical efficiency.
"Do you take this woman—"
"I do."
"Do you take this man—"
"I do."
They say it without hesitation. Without romance. Like signing contracts they've already negotiated.
The football player glances our way as they step aside, expression unreadable. Recognition passes between us—not personal, just awareness. Two men in similar circumstances.
Then they're gone, already being ushered toward the next phase.
Lindsay shifts slightly beside me.
Close enough now that I'm aware of her presence in a way I wasn't before. The scent of her perfume—subtle, but distinct. Something floral without being cloying.
The weight of that handbag still hanging from her arm like a challenge.
There's another couple in the corner of the room. A man standing several feet away from a petite woman clutching a notebook of some kind. They don't look at each other. Already slotted into the process.
I shift uncomfortably.
I know exactly how that arrangement will function.
I could diagram it. Predict its lifespan. Identify the failure points.
That knowledge should reassure me.
Instead, it makes one thing uncomfortably clear. Whatever Lindsay and I are about to agree to can’t rely on that system alone.
ERS staff approach, confirming names, documents, sequence.
Lindsay responds easily. Confident.
I register that without comment.
I think of Henry at home.
I chose not to bring him. This is infrastructure. A legal shift. Something best handled cleanly before it becomes visible.
That logic holds—for now.
But something about the absence feels wrong suddenly. Like I've miscalculated.
