The man turns to the woman in the blue dress. “I’ll need you to stay and be a witness for this last one, Mrs. Farriday.”

The woman nods as she gathers back her fountain pens and the document from the previous two witnesses. The happy couple in yellow and gray walk away arm in arm.

The photographer turns to Martin. “I’ll take your photograph, as well, if you’d like, sir. I do nice work. Only a dollar for a nice portrait for your mantel. And I’ll set you up for a set of cabinet photographs for giving away. Only two dollars for a dozen.”

“No, thank you,” Martin replies, not even looking at the man.

But I want a photograph of my wedding day. I want Mam to see this refined gentleman I am marrying, and how content I look on his arm. I want her to believe it will be different for me this time. I want to believe it, too.

I touch Martin’s arm. “Please, may we have him take a photograph?”

Martin swivels to face me.

“I would like one for my mother. And one for us. Shouldn’t we have one for us? And maybe one for your parents back east?”

He considers this for several seconds and then turns to the photographer. “We won’t need a dozen. Just two. One for the mantel and one for her mother.”

Martin hands the photographer the money and gives him an address. He then fishes out of his pants pocket two gold rings. The smaller one is set with a tiny glittering sapphire. He hands the larger one, a plain gold band, to me. It is smooth and warm in my palm.

And then the clerk is in front of us, telling us the judge is ready. The vows are simple and short. In a matter of mere breaths, it seems, the judge is finished and the rings are exchanged. The judge pronounces us married and then he stands and bids us good night.

There is no kiss to seal our vows. Our words did that, and the certificate will bear witness that we indeed said them.

I am led to a long table, handed a fountain pen, and told where to sign my name. Martin signs next, followed by the woman in the blue dress and the clerk. The judge, gone now, has already signed it.

“All right, then,” the photographer says to us. “If you’ll just turn toward me, folks. Sir, if you’ll just slip one hand into your pocket there.”

Martin and I stand as directed and the photographer takes the shot in a burst of bright light from his flash lamp.

The clerk and Mrs. Farriday are leaving by another door, and the photographer is hoisting his camera and flash pole on his shoulder and heading out of the emptying courtroom. I look down at the ring on my finger. Under the amber light of the ceiling lamps, Martin’s little sapphire sparkles like a tiny moonlit ocean.