Separate But Equal

" We are the same sex, and we have the same sex every night. So lets just make it official" You nervously joked. I laughed and said yes. But you were right, we are the same sex, and marriage is off the table in our state. So we settle for civil union. I grumbled all the way to through the process. The forms, the empty gestures extended to us by the state government. I complained the entire time and for that I'm sorry. And anyways, that was before I knew how romantic a civil union could be.

Before the glow of the water cooler, the sweet smell of break room coffee and perfume radiating from the receptionist, we didn't know how wonderful a state clerks office could be.

I don't think it's the massive crowd in this small space that's taken my breath away. It 's the romantic literature handed to me, layed upon the fine brown oak of the clip board, with timeless phrases, plucked from the lips of Shakespeare, such as,

Are you here on your own accord?:

or

Name:



Indeed. Now gay in both mood and sexual preference, I pull myself away from the poetry, sloppily copied poetry on cheap paper, long enough to notice an old hippie is merrily resting on a pillow made of a few issues of readers digests and...... his own hair? I wonder if the dreams he's dreaming are as sweet as my reality. Has he been whisked away to a place sweeter than the offices of the Exeter town clerk. is there really a place sweeter than the offices of the Exeter town clerk? A woman with a thyroid problem and a predisposition to cloths that fit is nudging him and he doesn't budge. I hope he's not dead.

So I was wrong, there is romanticism in settling. A certain beauty in the idea of not having a choice. And to think I thought this was going to be a long, unbearable process which I could hold over your head for as long as we were together.

The wait to see the town clerk is three and a half hours. Yeah. That's all. The teenager and step father sitting behind us had hardly even finished their argument before we are summoned. Now the receptionist is in an even sweeter mood and her perfume has worn off leaving only her natural, untainted scent. mmmmmmm.

Before we enter the clerks quarters you pull me in close, and ingeniously quote the poet Ralph Waldo Emerson when he said,

"Did the receptionist just call us fags?"

And I think......... the alternative to this, Marriage. Rings. Flower Peddles. Friends. Family. Choice of location. No office hours. Alcohol. Music. Dancing. Outside ceremony. Inside reception. Casual dress. Best men. Limos. Laughing. Open bar. Private catering. Open buffet. Mostly fried Food. Stupid desert. Chocolate fountain. Mom. Probably not dad. Younger brother. Older sister. Honeymoon. Government issued benefits.
And observe my reality. Dim lighting. Granola bar. Him. Me. Homophobic receptionist. Concern for the old hippie. Possibly dead hippie. Mon-Fri 7:00 am-6:00. Sat 7:00-12:00. Sun closed. And Separate but Equal.