He looked down at his own shirt, a clean but faded blue work button-down that had seen too many wash cycles.
“This is what we can afford,” I said.
I twisted my simple silver band around my ring finger, feeling the newness of the metal against my skin.
“And it is exactly where I want to be,” I added.
“We have forty-two dollars left in our joint account, Daniel. Tablecloths are for people who do not mind starting their lives in debt.”
Daniel did not look at his burger.
His eyes kept dropping to the heavy wool of his brown jacket, which sat on the bench beside him despite the October heat.
He had kept his hand near the inside pocket since we sat down, his fingers twitching toward the lining every time the diner bell rang.
“The lady at the desk in the courthouse had a coffee stain on her sweater,” I said, trying to make him smile. “She didn’t even look up when she stamped the license.”
“She was busy,” Daniel said, his mouth twitching with the smallest hint of a grin. “But she gave us the good pen to sign with.”
