“Marriage Licence.”

My boyfriend is in bed, sulking. Actually, ‘boyfriend’ may not be the best description. He might take exception to what he considers a less than accurate term for our relationship. We are, after all, about to get married. I won’t pretend it was my idea. The truth is I’m still not comfortable with the concept of embracing a heterosexual ritual, particularly one with such a low success rate. I guess I’m just weak. By a process of attrition, wrapped round with a lot of loving and some serious reflection upon the potential benefits possibly out-weighing the disadvantages, I have finally succumbed. He keeps pressing me for a date. Frankly I find this a little too pushy having only just sailed my homo ship into such choppy waters. Ironically, when BC legalized same sex marriage, I applauded this further advance towards equality. But it never crossed my mind I would have to contemplate embracing it or possibly become victim to it. Good for those who did, I thought, and sent off my letter of approval to the Prime Minister while giving the finger to right wing politicians and Christians who apparently aren’t.

We bought the marriage licence more than a month ago. Unfortunately it’s valid for ninety days and even I have not perfected the art of prevarication to that extent. A very pleasant woman greeted us over the counter at Statistics Canada down on Georgia. I would have taken a week or more merely to track down the building, but ‘Babikins’ as boyfriend likes to be called, got us there in no time at all. The lady smiled sincerely and asked what she could do for us. Given the thirty-year age gap between Babikins and myself, was she thinking we were a father son team, dad tagging along to lend moral support to a son about to embrace married life? Babikins jumped in. Perhaps he noticed me glancing backwards at the door.

“We want to get married,” he said gleefully.

The nice woman smiled again and took another look at me. The Chinese family ahead of us huddled closer and talked faster. A Native guy turned and nodded sternly. I wondered why he was there alone. Was this also the place to file for divorce? A voice of experience would have been welcome just then. The middle- aged woman distracted me.

“Well congratulations! You’ve come to the right place.”

For a moment I thought she meant to get us hitched immediately.

“ I’ll just need you to answer a few questions and fill in a form.”

I breathed again, but the bureaucracy had kicked in. We revealed our true names and status and other basic requirements. My future husband had not previously been married. I sensed the woman sounded a little more serious when she asked me. A moment of mischief flashed through my mind but I decided against fabricating a long forgotten wife, presumed dead. Only half conscious of the process, I found we were virtually at the end of it. This was all too easy. She re-confirmed our details before getting the licence print out and asked us to check it. I could find nothing faulty.

“Good,” she said cheerily. “Now all I’ll need is the hundred dollar fee.”

I signed a cheque. My hand was shaking. By the time we left the building the Chinese crowd was merely staring and I had a cold sweat running down my forehead. I assured myself Babikins looked happy rather than triumphant.

“Let’s get a drink.” I suggested. Babikins agreed we should celebrate.

My fiancé filed the licence when we got home in a folder marked ‘marriage’. I avoided the topic for a week but felt its presence pulsating in the drawer. Finally he confronted me, wondering just how long it was going to sit there like a food parcel with a sell by date. I mustered some defence, assuring him my system was merely adjusting to the momentous implications of married life and reminding him it was valid for three months.

“You make it sound like a prison sentence,” he said tersely, and went into one of his depressed moods.

My future husband emerged from his depression with ambiguous self-reproaching rhetoric.

“Perhaps I assumed too much,” he said. I looked up, my mind fidgeting frantically for a response I wasn’t sure would be needed.

“You’re not capable of commitment, in the way I am.”

I noted the accusation. My mind wrestled trying to remember all those key words from a course on teaching anger management and people skills.

“Your problem is you see me as the same as all your previous boyfriends.”

True, they were all threatening but in a vastly different way. None would have considered marriage. On reflection all I had to do was survive them for the short term. But a husband is for life, isn’t it? I need more time. And meanwhile the clock is ticking on that marriage licence.