At City Hall, eternal love matters, but the pen puts intent on the line
The second floor of Boston City Hall is a dim dungeon of payback where solitary souls shuffle in lines to settle up parking tickets and tax bills. In this stone expanse, with its inelegant concrete stylings, the atmosphere is stifling and dull -- except at the marriage license window, where parties arrive in twos and flashes of flirtation pierce the monotony.
''There's nothing romantic about filling out forms," says Carol Drysdale, a clerk who works the wedlock counter. Too true, but as Valentine's Day looms, a visit to the marriage license window at City Hall provides a glimpse of modern lovers taking the leap to pay $50 cash for a piece of paper certifying their shared goal to wed within 60 days. This first step, bureaucratically known as an ''intention," is the tipping point toward legalizing commitment.
The couples come up to the window looking happy, bewildered, or bored, and walk away with a clipboard holding a double-sided questionnaire and a single-page addendum for their responses and signatures. They huddle over the paperwork and return to the counter, where marriage registrar Judy McCarthy or any of her five clerks look over the papers, help fill in the blanks caused by confusion, and administer an oath to the presumptive lovebirds, who raise their right hands and swear all answers are true.
''Are you male or female? Pick one." I stood off to the side and listened as clerk Drysdale went through the drill with a twosome who had left a few crucial queries empty. ''Are you related to one another? Check no. What's the last name to be used after marriage? Both of you can write whatever. Were the parents related? Where are you getting your last name from? Is there a reason why you don't have a Social Security number?" Satisfied with their hushed responses, Drysdale administered the oath and sent the couple off to pay for their certificate, which they could pick up three days later. They declined to be interviewed for this story.
Not so circumspect were Tatiana Filipovich, 24, and Francesco Epifania, 27. They turned their trip to the registry window into an opportunity for multilingual jousting in Italian (his native language), Russian (hers), and English (theirs). Perched on a concrete buttress, they giddily filled out the forms, whispering and laughing as they worked through the questions.
They met when they both worked at boites on Newbury Street; she at Ciao Bella and he at Daisy Buchanan's. Now, he pours drinks at Rumor, a bar in the Theater District, and she's working in a hair salon. ''She gets them pretty and I get them drunk," said Epifania, causing Filipovich to erupt into giggles. ''I call him a professional intoxicator," she said. ''Yes, I send them off with somebody they will regret the next morning," he said.
They don't know when they're getting married but ''no, not on Valentine's Day," insisted Filipovich. ''It's a nice tradition but people should feel it every day."
Epifania vowed he didn't want a big bash. ''I don't want to be like Russell Crowe and blow $60 million on a wedding," he said. ''I want to get married on a beach in Hawaii," she said. They live together in East Boston and Epifania expects that after they wed, he will still feel ''the same thing. It's not like it's any different." Filipovich disagreed: ''I think when people get married in a church, they are bound by God." Silenced, he nodded his head in agreement.
On an ordinary day, by Drysdale's estimate, there are ''12 or 13" marriage licenses issued in the city of Boston. On the first Friday in Cupid's month, there was a run on the window, especially during the final two hours. And when McCarthy finally lowered the metal blinds at 4 p.m., her office had processed 26 intentions.
The engaged couples who showed up between 2 and 4 p.m. reflected the multicultural metropolis, with a flavoring of staid traditions and the statewide same-sex marriage law.
A male duo applying for a license declined to be photographed and didn't want to answer questions. Another couple, Robert Braman and Rachel Johnson, didn't have time to talk. They met at a church social and were clear they do not live together, although accommodations will change after their wedding, planned for this Saturday.
A mixed-race couple shied away from having their picture taken, but they did allow their first names -- Lucy and John -- to be used. ''We got married three months ago in our heads," said John, whose first question for Drysdale was what constitutes a legal marriage. ''You must be married by a priest, minister, rabbi, or justice of the peace," she told him.
Lucy and John fell for each other at work, a high-tech company. ''For me, it was love at first sight," said Lucy. They have no date to share, but John does not want a showy reception. ''We don't want to make our relatives spend $40,000 to make some hotel guy rich," he said. He explained their reluctance to provide their ages or last names owed to ''traditional family issues that are not about skin color." After raising their right hands, Lucy and John went off to their future.
Another betrothed approached the window with a baby in her arms and a translator by her side. She plans to marry a man in prison on March 20. This situation -- known as a Chapter 635 -- is the only occasion a single petitioner can get a marriage license, with only one hand raised to affirm all information on the paperwork is true. ''It's her word," said Drysdale. Deathbed nuptials pose another special case; the applicant must bring proof from a doctor as to the dire distress of their intended.
David Carruthers, 36, and Wendelyn Holder, 33, smiled as they came for their license. ''We're really doing it. There's no turning back," said Carruthers, author of a soon-to-be-published self-help book, ''Kill Your Giants."
The couple met three years ago in church, the Family Life Fellowship in Hyde Park. He walked in wearing a purple shirt and she thought, '' 'Wow, a man in a purple shirt. Who's that?' It wasn't common for a man to wear a purple shirt three years ago." He described feeling ''drawn to her. I wanted to find out what this hunch was about." At first, their plans to wed were a secret ''but then it got around." So they will marry in a small ceremony now and have a big reception in June.
The secret is out after a couple gets a marriage license. The document becomes part of the public record, except if an applicant was born out of wedlock, which immediately sets off a trigger to impound the information for privacy reasons, according to registrar McCarthy. The rules of the marriage license are rigid. Cash-only because of the possible changes in personal checking and charge accounts. State law mandates a three-day wait for the license, which expires after 60 days.
Applicants rarely read the other laws pertaining to marriage, handy in a laminated posting next to the window. These ''Legal Impediments To Marriage" are contained in Chapter 207 of the Massachusetts General Laws. First on the list: ''No man shall marry his mother, grandmother, daughter, granddaughter, sister, stepmother, grandfather's wife, grandson's wife, wife's mother, wife's grandmother, wife's daughter, wife's granddaughter, brother's daughter, sister's daughter, father's sister, or mother's sister." The same applies for a woman, but with the paternal order.
With no legal impediments and a license in hand, Holder and Carruthers will marry soon. On Feb. 14, perhaps? The couple showed a decided lack of excitement about that idea. ''My cousin got married on Valentine's Day," said Holder, ''so that's been done."
E-mail Monica Collins at mcollins@globe.com. 
