This morning on the F train, a man stood in front of me holding a few pieces of paper, stapled together with a receipt for $35 on top, out in the open the entire ride. It was a marriage license. Thirty-five dollars for a New Domestic Partnership fee from the Office of the City Clerk in Brooklyn, New York. As soon as I figured out what it was, and decided it was my business to know, I couldn’t stop staring.
Why was he holding such an important document out in the open like that? Had he just gotten it minutes before? Where was his bride? Does getting married in New York really only cost thirty-five bucks?
Since the answers don’t belong to me, and I doubt the subject in question will be applicable for many years, either, the next bend my thoughts turned was to writing. As much as I’ve wanted to resist writing lately, as furious and confused and depressed as it has made me in the last week alone, there’s simply no way to live in this city without being surrounded by stories. The characters, the nuances—they just appear before you. You have no choice.
M
