The officiant does not open a book. He does not clear his throat theatrically or recite language worn thin by repetition. Instead, he studies them for a long moment, as though confirming that what stands before him does not require embellishment or ornament to be worthy of recognition.
When he begins to speak, his voice carries easily across the courtyard without force. It does not compete with the mountain air. It moves through it.
"Most ceremonies speak about love as if it begins on a day like this. They describe it as something that arrives dressed in white, something witnessed and made legitimate by an audience."
A faint, knowing warmth touches his expression, not amused, but observant.
"That is not what is happening here."
The leaves woven through the circular arch stir softly as a breeze passes through them, eucalyptus brushing against pale blossoms in quiet movement.
