The Eighth Wedding
“Are we monogamous?”
This question had come from V about seven months into the relationship. They had woken up amorous, coupled, and were luxuriating in the lazy sunrise afterglow.
J had known this question would come up, but was still surprised that it arrived so abruptly, and at this particular moment.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Are we?”
He hadn’t been with anyone else for months, and V hadn’t told him about extracurricular exploits. So his big, immediate concern was whether the question was theoretical or logistical.
V didn’t show her cards. Instead, she cuddled into him and said, “I’m curious what you think.”
“I love being with you, and I’m happy being only with you.”
V kissed him then, for long enough that J had time to wonder what lay at the other side of it.
When V pulled back, she was smiling.
“Good,” she said. “That’s how I feel, too. So I guess the answer is, we’re monogamous.”
“I’ll prepare the press release,” J told her.
“Yes, we’ll send it to all our exes.”
“And our more attractive colleagues.”
“And baristas. We need to send it to all the baristas. They’re always asking me what my name is, and we know what that leads to.”
“I love you,” J said to V then. It wasn’t the first time, but it still felt like an event when it was said this way.
“I love you, too,” V said back. Then she shifted away and asked, “Do you mind if I take the first shower?”
No, J didn’t mind at all.
“This is how it will go,” Nick Andrews says to J at a Starbucks across from Borough Hall, ten days after their initial contact.
“The judge officiating today happens to be a big fan, so she’s down with you and me being in the chapel for the weddings, and you playing your quick tune—emphasis on the word quick .
Now of course we don’t want to be wedding crashers, so I’ve got two amazing interns, Dylan and Mike, asking each of the couples if they would like a serenade, no additional cost, courtesy of The New Yorker .
I’m guessing half will be takers, half will tell us to scram.
But the judge performs four or five weddings an hour, so even if half say yes, we’ll have enough for the story. ”
“It’s nice that the judge is a fan,” J observes. “When I imagine my audience, it’s rarely the judiciary.”
“Oh,” Nick responds, looking momentarily at his shoes. “I meant she’s a fan of The New Yorker . She hasn’t heard of you. But she was intrigued!”
It had taken V three days to respond to J’s messages. In that time, he’d left Leipzig, returned home, and booked a new ticket to New York.
Sorry, she texted. I keep running out of time. I hope the wedding went well .
The text arrived at seven in the morning, J’s time. Which meant he was still asleep, and when he woke, he assumed V was already lost to work. He knew it was unlikely that V had planned the message to fall into this time-zone limbo.
If it had been three hours, and not three days, he would have texted back, It’s okay. No problem . But since it had been three days, and it struck him that she didn’t have any idea where in the world he was, he messaged back:
I’m in my apartment. Just woke up. The wedding was interesting. Someone almost died. You would have loved it .
He was satisfied with his tone as he typed, then dissatisfied as soon as he sent the words on their way.
What he really wanted to ask was, Do you miss it here ?
Because back in the apartment, all he felt was its emptiness of her.
But could she feel that emptiness from so far away?
He knew it was possible—he often missed that home-shaped space while he was on the road.
But as he once again waited for the passing hours to bring him a reply, he wondered if, without talking about it, their relationship had slid into something that had happened in the past, once upon a time, in a place she no longer brought to mind.
J isn’t sure exactly what to expect on a Thursday mid-morning at the Brooklyn courthouse.
He has never performed at a city hall wedding before.
At receptions afterward (sometimes long afterward), sure.
But not at the event itself. He understands the impulse to separate the legality from the celebration, to take away some of the suspense before the big performance.
He also, frankly, prefers to think of marriage in terms of the law and not in terms of a higher power needing to be pleased.
But that, of course, is just his opinion.
The courthouse exterior is monumental enough, but once you get inside, it quickly devolves into the architecture of bureaucracy, circa 1960.
J half expects men in gray flannel suits to be popping in and out of the office doors, with colorful secretaries glimpsed inside, pitter-patting away on their typewriters.
The hall leading to the marriage office is the same as any other hall, and when you step inside the office, it looks like any other municipal office, with a check-in counter that would not be out of place at a department of motor vehicles.
The people behind the counter could be working anywhere, dressed respectably but not reflecting the supposed joy of the occasion.
The thing that’s different is the waiting area, and the dynamic of the people within it.
Here, every party is at least a party of two.
A few smile at J and his guitar, and he doesn’t know if this is because the interns have already asked if they want him to join their weddings, or if it’s simply the sight of a man in a suit with a guitar in this particular lobby that makes them happy.
Nick sees J looking around. “My husband and I got married here,” he says.
“I know it’s pretty drab, but in a way, that makes it more incredible to me.
Like in a fantasy novel, when the most boring building imaginable houses a ministry of spellcasters.
You have each other, you have your friends and family, if they can make it.
Nothing big. But the building tells you that’s all you need.
A marriage is about a lot of people, sure.
But at its heart, it’s about two people.
And here, you’re stepping right into the heart. ”
Someone almost died at the wedding ? V wrote back ten hours after J’s message. You didn’t try to hit any high notes, did you ?
The line made J smile, and the smile made him hurt.
When things are falling apart, isn’t it easier when you’re not getting along?
When you no longer have access to the things about the other person that once brought you pleasure?
For J, the fact that V could ricochet any of his remarks back to him with equal precision (if not speed) has always been part of the thrill of the pairing.
What can I say ? he responded. You weren’t there to prevent me from doing my “Ave Maria .”
How do you solve a problem like “Ave Maria” ?
That’s what I need you to teach me .
There was a pause. Those excruciating three dots. Then:
How’s home ? V asked.
J hated how hopeful this simple question made him. And hated even more that he immediately replied, It misses you . Because it only set him up for the disappointment of what she wrote next:
My apartment here misses me too. Or at least the awake version of me .
It’s considerate of your apartment not to wake you, just to play .
Good thing I got an apartment and not a puppy .
Exactly .
Sitting alone in his room, approximately 3,750 miles away from her, J could sense V about to end the conversation, and felt a spur of fear that it would be another few days before he could re-engage her. Quickly, he threw something else into the breach:
I’m going back to New York in four days. To be interviewed by The New Yorker .
(He knew “interviewed” wasn’t entirely accurate, but it was close enough.)
Oh, wow. The New Yorker thing came through .
I’m very excited . (Somehow, this obvious statement felt like a confession, as if sharing any emotion with her had implications.)
Are you staying at Julia’s again ?
That was the plan. But J was curious if V would offer her forlorn apartment. So he answered, Not sure. Might need to find somewhere else .
You always liked the Ace Hotel, didn’t you? It’s off season, so there might be a deal .
It could conceivably be some consolation that her memory of his hotel preference is accurate. But at that moment, it wasn’t a consolation at all. Or, at best, it was a condescending consolation.
I’ll let you know where I end up, J typed.
Great. I do want to hear more. But I have to go now. I suppose you can catch me up in person in a few days. Message me when you get here .
The judge’s name is Anna Pao, and she spells it twice for Nick even though there is a nameplate right on her desk. It is clear to J that Nick wasn’t kidding—even more than J, Judge Pao is excited to be in The New Yorker .
They meet in the room where all the ceremonies occur.
It looks like it was created in 1962 by an architect who wanted to stretch his stained-glass budget as far as it could go, by choosing abstract shards of color rather than any coherent representation.
The swath of colored shape is either countered or complimented by a whole lot of wood paneling.
On the plus side, it definitely looks like they’ve left the municipal vibe behind.
On the minus side, they’ve left it for a nondenominational, windowless rec room.
There is a slightly elevated platform for Judge Pao and the couples getting married, and then a wide area for chosen spectators. The judge gestures to a space to the side of the platform where J can stand.
“This way you’ll only be in the photos if they want you to be,” Judge Pao says.
“Makes sense,” J tells her. The spot is definitely more in shadow than in light.