The next morning, they didn't go home. They drove to City Hall.
They were still in their clothes from the gala. Eunice's black gown was wrinkled, her perfect hair falling out of its pins. Karlman's tux was rumpled, his tie stuffed in his pocket. They looked less like a couple getting married and more like the survivors of a shipwreck, washed ashore.
The Municipal Building was a monument to indifference. It smelled of stale coffee, wet wool, and old bureaucracy. Fluorescent lights buzzed over peeling linoleum floors. They took a number—142—and sat on a hard, wooden bench between a teenage couple in matching hoodies and an older couple arguing in a language they didn't understand.
"My mother," Eunice said, her voice a dry, hollow echo of itself, "had a binder for my wedding. It was six inches thick. It had fabric swatches for a thousand-person tent."
"I was supposed to have a potluck in the church basement," Karlman replied. "My mom would have baked three hundred lemon bars."
They looked at each other. The absurdity of it, the sheer, catastrophic loss, was so vast it was almost funny. A single, shared, broken laugh escaped them both.
"Number 142!" a bored voice called over a crackling intercom.
They stood up and walked to the counter, a barrier of scratched Plexiglas separating them from a woman who looked like she'd seen every bad decision in the city's history.
"You got the license?" she asked, not looking up.
"We're here for it," Karlman said.
"IDs. Application."
They slid their driver's licenses under the glass. The woman squinted at Eunice's. "You live on Crestwood Drive? That's old money. What are you doing here?"
"Getting married," Eunice said, her voice flat.
The woman shrugged. "Your funeral. Twenty-four-hour waiting period after you file."
"No," Eunice said, a flash of her old command returning. "We need a waiver. We're doing it today. Now."
"Everyone needs it 'now,' honey. You gotta have a reason. Military deployment, medical..."
"Medical," Karlman said, his mind a steel trap. "We have a critical medical advisory. We need to be legally married. Now."
The woman's eyes flickered up, assessing them. The desperation. The wrinkled formal wear. She'd seen this movie, too. She sighed, a long, rattling sound, and stamped a form. "Fine. Whatever. Go see the judge, second floor, room 2B. You need witnesses."
"We don't have any," Eunice said.
"Then go find some," the woman said, already calling "Number 143!"
They went upstairs. Room 2B was a small, beige room with a plastic fern in the corner and a portrait of the mayor hanging crookedly on the wall. The Justice of the Peace looked like a retired gym teacher, his robes worn over a polo shirt.
"Witnesses?" he grunted.
Karlman looked out into the hall. A janitor was pushing a rattling trash bin. "Sir? Excuse me?"
The janitor, an old man with kind, tired eyes, looked up.
"Would you... would you be a witness at our wedding?"
The man looked from Karlman's tux to Eunice's gown. He'd seen this movie, too. He nodded. "Sure, kid. I got five minutes. You need one more."
Eunice stepped into the hall. The teenage girl in the hoodie from downstairs was walking past, her boyfriend in tow. "Excuse me," Eunice said.
The girl stopped, wary. "Yeah?"
"I... I need another witness. For my wedding."
The girl looked at Eunice, at her gown, at her tear-streaked, defiant face. A slow smile spread across her own. "Oh, hell yeah," she said. "We're in."
So they stood before the judge. Eunice, the disinherited strategist. Karlman, the disfellowshipped prodigy. Their witnesses: a janitor named Sal and a nineteen-year-old girl with pink hair named 'Sky.'
The judge read the words, his voice a monotone drone. "To have and to hold, from this day forward..."
Eunice and Karlman looked at each other.
"...for better, for worse..." (This was the worse.)
"...for richer, for poorer..." (This was the poorer.)
"...in sickness and in health..." (This was the sickness.)
The judge sighed. "You got rings?"
They froze. In the chaos, the one, simple, traditional thing... they had forgotten.
There was a fumbling sound. Sal, the janitor, was digging in his pocket. He pulled out a simple, silver keyring loop. "Here," he grunted, pushing it into Karlman's hand. "Use this. It's just a circle. Same thing."
Karlman looked at the piece of metal. Then he looked at Eunice and slid it onto her finger. It was cold and industrial. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
"I do," Karlman said, his voice clear and strong.
"I do," Eunice replied, her voice shaking but certain.
"Fine. You're married," the judge said. "Sign here, here, and here. Sal, you're here. Sky... just... fine, 'Sky' is fine. Get out."
They were handed a piece of paper, a carbon copy that declared them, in the eyes of the law, a single entity. They walked out and stood on the wide, granite steps of City Hall. The city roared around them, indifferent. They were Mr. and Mrs. Dowman. Outcasts.
They were starving.
They went to the 24-hour diner where they'd had their third "secret" date. They slid into a red vinyl booth, the morning sun streaming in, making them look even more like relics of a party that had ended badly.
The waitress, a woman with a beehive hairdo and a name tag that read 'Flo,' poured them coffee. "Tough night, kids?"
"We just got married," Karlman said.
Flo didn't miss a beat. "Well, congrats. Pancakes are half off on Tuesdays."
They ordered coffee and fries. When it came, Karlman lifted his thick, porcelain coffee mug. "To the Dowman Dynasty," he said, his voice rough.
Eunice clinked her mug against his. "Population: two."
A small, genuine smile touched her lips. It was the first one in weeks. It was over. They had lost the world. But the war, the one that mattered, they had just won.