Eric asks Laura, "When you were an 8-year-old girl playing with dolls, did you imagine your wedding day like this, in a courthouse room that looks like a bunker?"

Laura laughs, "I wasn't that kind of girl. I never really thought about it."

They moved to Seattle from Philly about two months ago, and before you get fresh, this isn't a shotgun wedding: "We just needed to get this done before the 31st, which is when my insurance runs out," Laura explains.

This room, where we're waiting for the officiating judge, is pretty bunker-like. One wall is cement, the others are institutional white, and the fluorescent lights aren't really flattering my blackheads. The only sign that it's a prenuptial chamber is a wicker heart with artificial flowers stuck to the wall, but the room also has a TV/VCR with jury-duty training videos and one curious videotape, labeled Saving Cowboys: The Epic Saga of Two Lonely Cowpunchers on the Trail to Financial Security.

Before we can watch the 401(k) Rodeo, though, the judge summons us to her chambers. In 15 minutes, the ceremony is done—Laura looks on the verge of giggling the whole time—and we're in a cab, heading back to their apartment. I ask them if, now that they're one man and one woman bonded in matrimony, they feel somehow terrorized by gay marriage. They look at me like I'm crazy. Soon, with friends and good wine, we're toasting a long, happy life together, and Eric and Laura simultaneously add: "And no children!" Delightfully low-fi, it's one of the sweetest weddings I've ever attended.

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