Chapter 10 - The Gold Seal
The Clark County Marriage License Bureau processes approximately eighty thousand licenses a year.
We see people who are drunk on love, people who are drunk on tequila, people who are desperate, people who are bored, and people who genuinely believe that signing their name on a piece of paper with a gold border will turn a bad idea into a good life.
My shift ends at five.
At 4:55 PM, a young couple walked up to Window Three. They couldn't have been more than twenty-two. The boy was wearing a slightly crumpled linen shirt; the girl had a simple daisy tucked behind her ear. They were holding hands so tightly their knuckles were white.
"Are you ready?" I asked through the speak-hole.
"We think so," the girl said, her voice shaking a little with excitement. She slid their driver's licenses through the slot. "We've been planning this for three years."
"Three years is a good amount of time," I said.
I scanned the cards. I pulled a fresh sheet of gold-bordered stock from the tray. I typed their names into the system, carefully checking every letter, every date, every middle initial to ensure there were no errors in the record.
I slid the digital pad across the counter.
"Sign here," I said. "Both of you. Take your time."
They signed. Their signatures were overlapping, messy with nerves, but clear.
I took the heavy three-pound iron seal of Clark County, aligned the margin of the paper between the metal jaws, and brought my hand down with a firm, practiced strike.
CRUNCH.
The paper puckered. The gold seal rose in sharp, clean relief against the white page.
I held it up to the light to verify the imprint, then passed it through the slot along with their receipts.
"Your license is valid for one year," I told them, offering the same small, clear smile I gave to every couple who understood what they were holding. "Make sure you give it to someone who respects the ink."
"We will," the boy said, taking the paper like it was made of thin glass. "Thank you, ma'am."
"Have a wonderful life," I said.
May you like
I cleared my desk. I wiped down the counter with a disinfectant wipe. I turned off the small lamp above Window Three, locked my till into the floor safe, and pulled my coat off the peg.
Outside, the sun was setting over the Spring Mountains, painting the clouds in long streaks of violet, gold, and cold, clear pink. I walked out to my car, put my key into the ignition, and drove home to my apartment where the windows were open, the air was quiet, and every single paper was in its proper place.
