The town hall could have fallen out of a newspaper, picture-perfect as a shooting star. We entered and followed the trail of cheap perfume. The west wing branched around us like roadkill. We found ourselves in a room with no windows, only filing cabinets on which postcards of windows were attached by sticky tapes. We stood before the woman with a red plastic orchid behind her right ear. We announced an intention to marry. She made us sign some papers with blue pens that leaked their ink under our nails. This was today. My future wife carried our future child in her belly like a submerged city. Inside, I grew some more reasons to fear the future. On the drive home, we took a left turn instead of right and found a fire hydrant, eleven cats sprayed with paint and a couple of burglars running out the house that would have been, in a week's time, ours.