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Death is only permanent if you’re unlucky, which makes it the opposite of marriage.
If you get along when it comes to kissing, cooking, and killing, there’s a good chance everything else will fall into place, right?
There are problems that just can’t be solved by sticking something pointy into someone. I try to stay away from those kinds of problems, because they get complicated, and I don’t like complicated. I’m a simple guy. Ask anyone.
Anyway, Cawti and I sat down with Father Farkosh and a bottle of peach brandy and figured some stuff out. We decided that we’d promise to keep loving each other and to work out our problems and all that. That’s when Father Farkosh told us that, traditionally, the vows had to rhyme. We looked at each other, and another tradition fell dead on the floor. Don’t know about the vows, but the brandy was good.
“How do you sleep in here?” I said. She frowned. “As you do.” “I lie down.” “Of course, so do … Oh, yes. You are only seeing three dimensions, aren’t you?” I decided to drop that subject, too.
