You know what the sacrament of Marriage is. You were forced to go to CCD every week as a child.

“We are not breeders,” you say.

“I know,” he responds and continues to watch the scenery go by.

You stopped believing in religion when you were a teenager. You couldn’t stand the hypocrisy.

That didn’t mean you stopped having faith.

“We are not monogamous.”

“Obviously.” He rolls his eyes as he hands over his passport.

The vows of marriage are the important part. Making the commitment to be there for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, in good times, bad times and really, really shitty times, forsaking all others your heart until death separates you.

“We will never have a house in the suburbs, adopt children together, and carpool in a minivan,” you inform him.

His lips curve in amusement as he lets you knot his tie. “Can we still fuck in one?”

You never thought you’d find a person to put up with your crap who wasn’t a doormat like your best friend. You like knowing no matter what you do, he will always come back, and if he’s the one who does something, you’ll still let him stay. You’re secure in the knowledge that you’re not alone, even if you’re not together, putting all fears to rest.

“I’ll never wear a wedding band.”

“You’d never live it down if you did,” he says, taking your hand as you walk down the aisle.

You don’t need a piece of paper, that wasn’t legal in the states in any case, to make a commitment to a person. You were never one to conform to the masses. You hate the pomp and ceremony shit.

But you still believe in what marriage means.

“I won’t ever say the words,” you tell him.

He gives you a smile that reminds you why you call him Sunshine, when the Canadian Justice of the Peace concludes their vows. “You don’t have to. I still hear them anyway.”