A Taste of Utopia by L. Duarte

deal. I need a license.”
    “Come by at nine.”
    “Now.”
    “You’re fucking shitting me.”
    “No, calling in a favor.”
    “Fuck you. You know I can’t say no.”
    “You can. But I know you won’t. Meet you in front of your office in ten.”
    “Fuck. Let me wake up at least.”
    “Fine. You have twenty minutes to get your sorry ass together.”
    I hit end and shove the phone in my pocket.
    “Oh my God! I’m getting married!” Lottie squeals clenching her hand to her mouth. She gathers her ID and cell phone and hands them to me. I slip them in my pocket.
    I collect the hotel key, a bottle of champagne, and tug her hand. “Let’s rock, betrothed. We have five minutes to pick up a ring.”
     
     
    Lottie
    ABOUT HALF AN hour from when I said yes, my hand trembles as I scribble my signature on the marriage license.
    “You two are crazy.” Jeremy shakes his head, but his eyes betray him. I can see he’s amused with our insane wedding.
    This is the stuff Vegas is made of. I tell myself this as a way of pacifying my conscience. I rebuke any thought of being sensible and refuse to allow it to surface to the forefront of my mind.
    Tonight I’m following the one rule established by Chloe: No rules.
    Anything goes. And if whisking a handsome man to the nearest chapel fits the bill, so be it. I’m young, free, and I don’t have a care in the world. There. I said it. Nothing will get in the way of this new reckless version of me. Not even the smart, intelligent, sensible, rational, knows better, know-it-all me.
    “It’s official. You two lovebirds are all set. Congratulations.” Jeremy thumps a heavy stamp over his signature.
    “Thanks for opening the joint and doing this,” Seth says, shaking hands with his friend. “I owe you one.”
    “Nah. Just call it even.”
    “Got to go, man.” Seth waves the certificate. “Wedding to attend.” He grips my hand and pulls me out of the Clark County Marriage Bureau.
    Once we make it back to the strip, Seth strolls with long and resolute steps. I take in the warm night breeze blowing from under my dress, sending a shiver running over my sensitive body. Thoughts swirl, turn, and thumb around my mind with the fierceness of a windmill right before a storm.
    My mind is teetering between sobriety and drunkenness. Neither completely one nor the other. But one thing is certain, my head buzzes with an uncharacteristic giddiness that I’ve never felt before. There’s no way in hell I’ll walk away from this liberating feeling.
    Seth comes to a halt, causing me to stumble upon him. “No cold feet?” he asks and nods to a chapel.
    I look up at him. His lips curve into a youthful smile. His turquoise eyes are sparkling with mischief, mirth, elation, and a hidden mystery that I’m bent on unraveling. Again, my conscience assures me this is insane, irresponsible even. That’s what pulls me to the edge, dissipating any and all doubts. The fun of it all is in the recklessness.
    “My feet are toasty warm,” I say.
    Seth opens the door to the chapel. We sit on padded folding chairs. An Elvis Presley officiator is marrying two women.
    They’re wearing white suits. Both of them wear a crown of white wildflowers in their hair. The shorter and seemly younger one also holds a delicate bouquet of white daisies. They look ethereally beautiful.
    After a few more words, the officiator declares them married. While the couple kisses, he beckons us to approach.
    Yep, everything is utterly unromantic.
    Seth hands the license to the notary and proceeds to pay him. The chapel provides two witnesses, which are Sonny and Cher impersonators, nonetheless.
    The girls end their kiss. We congratulate them as the officiator scans our license and IDs.
    “Thank you,” the taller one says. “Congratulations to you both as well.” With linked arms, they stroll down the aisle. The shorter one turns back, and with an elated smile stretched on her face, she asks, “Would you like the