Marriage License

A man clipped his nails from atop his toilet, pants around one ankle, and a woman called from somewhere beyond the door. “Sweetie?”

“Yes?” the man replied.

“You’re not a secret agent, are you?”

“Not to my knowledge, Dear.”

“But if you were, you’d tell me, right?”

“Of course, Dear. Why do you ask?”

“Well,” she said, walking in with a large case filled with an assortment of tactical gear, weapons, ammunition, blueprints for a “RAY” of one sort or another, and multiple forms of identification for multiple identities. “I was looking for our marriage license in the garage, but all I found was this old junk.”

He looked at this, then to her. “Must be Bill’s.”

She also looked at this, but then to him. Though she could have also looked at her, if she wanted. The bathroom’s vanity was right there and everything. But she didn’t, because this isn’t that sort of thing. “These are Bill’s?”

He considered this. “Fairly certain.”

“These are Bill’s guns, turtlenecks, night vision goggles, and fake passports?”

“The night vision goggles might be mine.”

She pouted. “Are you sure you’re not a secret agent?”

He laughed. “I think I’d remember signing up for something like that.”

She picked up a passport from a small box of passports clearly marked, POTENTIAL FUTURE IDENTITIES. “Is this my identity? Were you planning on stealing my identity?”

“Honey,” he sighed. “I’m disappointed in you.”

“What?” she what’d in that way when someone is rather confused.

“You went and spoiled your birthday present!”

“My birthday present?”


“Why would I want you to steal my identity for my birthday?”

“Remember how you’ve been going on and on about how you wish you could just disappear, just run away and never look back and nobody would ever even know you were going?”


“Well,” he said, buying himself a brief moment to think of something to say next. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

She nodded. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you sure you’re not a secret agent?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Well, okay.” She gathered up all the secret agent-like gear back into its box, and left. “I suppose I’ll call Bill and ask him to pick up his things.”

He returned to clipping his nails, then thought to add, “Don’t let him take my night vision goggles!”

“What night vision goggles?” someone else replied from beyond the door.


A completely different woman stepped into the bathroom, saw him on the toilet, and averted her eyes with an audible hiss. “Why?!


“Why that,” she growled, pointing to the man atop the toilet with his pants wrapped around the ankle attached to the foot attached to the toe from which grew the nail he was currently stretching to clip.

“I’m clipping my nails,” he said, mid-clip. “Why are you acting so weird? You were just in here.”

“What?” she what’d in that way one whats when they’re really, really confused. “No, I just got home. I’ve been at my sister’s all week.”

He looked at her, then to the door. “Son of a bitch.”