Inlay

The Department of Marriage and Family has started adding fine print to wedding licenses. I’m leaving nothing to chance. My veil sits on the table next to the stack of papers, lace sleeves pulled up past my elbows as I read. In the hallway, our guests laugh and clink glasses with my almost-husband. My sister, Amanda, married Cal last year. Drunk on chardonnay and blind optimism, they just signed it, missing the part that said: In accordance with article 23b, the couple agrees to produce no fewer than two children. They’re fined five hundred dollars for every month that passes without conception. I think of Amanda counting the days, then blood. Three days after our neighbor died, his wife, Georgia, got a certified letter informing her that pursuant to the license, she needs to marry one of his blood relatives within twelve (12) months and birth at least one child. “I won’t do it,” she told me over our shared fence. I never saw her again. As I turn to the final page of our agreement, I catch it: Should either party fall below the procreation expectations for three consecutive quarters, the Department may assign a replacement spouse. His signature sits clean and binding. My line is still empty. I fold the page and slip it into my bodice. The paper sticks to my skin. I feel my heart pounding against it. I grab my veil and rejoin our guests. I smile, cut the cake, and walk toward the back door, already knowing it won’t open. --- Rachel M. Hollis lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband, son, and a deeply unmotivated dog. Her work appears in New Flash Fiction Review, Necessary Fiction, Gone Lawn, MoonPark Review, and elsewhere. She can be found at rachelmhollis.com.