A series of happenstances and the impenetrable New York City bureaucracy almost turn this touching love story into a frustrating nightmare.

My friend Janet is walking toward me on Riverside Drive in New York City, holding the arm of a man I've never seen before. They stop to greet me. "Bill and I just met," Janet says breathlessly. "It's our first date." I could swear they aren't walking—it's more like they're floating. They have met through an ad she placed in the New York Review of Books.

Cut to one Friday, 11 years later. Janet asks if I will be a witness at her civil wedding the following week. After ten years of cohabitation, she and Bill have decided to make it legal.

Janet is a radiant 78 year old who has never married. As a poet, teacher, and former dancer, she carries herself with grace. There's always a stunning flash of color in her clothes—a Mexican shawl, Tibetan beads, or a shimmering vest. Heads still turn when she walks down the street.

Bill, 76, is twice divorced. He's a real-estate appraiser and a formidable singer who worked as a cantor, even though he's not Jewish. He is enrolled in a special liberal arts program at Empire State College.

They had an unofficial wedding celebration some years back, but now they've realized that there are legal rights attached to making their status official—the sort of benefits awarded to gay couples in civil unions, but not to couples in their situation. Their co-op apartment on the upper west side of Manhattan is in Janet's name. Under their current status, if Janet were to die, they are not sure if Bill would be allowed to continue living there.

At the municipal building in downtown Manhattan, the corridor in front of the "wedding chapel" is teeming with people standing or sitting, a cross-section of the ethnic groups that make up the glory of our city. It's the Friday before New Year's Day, the last chance of the year to take advantage of the tax laws that favor married people. Like Janet and Bill, others have waited until the last moment. I worry that I won't get home in time to iron a tablecloth for the celebratory dinner my husband and I are giving for the happy couple and some friends.

When we finally reach the counter, the clerk asks Janet for a photo ID. She rummages in her bag and wallet but is unable to find her New York state driver's license. "Step aside," the clerk says impatiently. The line behind us is getting longer by the second.

"I know I put it in my wallet," Janet murmurs, searching frantically. Bill has an inscrutable look on his face. After emptying her purse and wallet, Janet gives up, devastated. What if she takes a taxi home, she suggests, finds the ID, and rushes back while we wait for her? It's close to 3 p.m., and traffic is already clogged. She'll never make it back before the office closes. Janet's sense of time has often been somewhat flexible, but in this case, the bureaucracy is not about to accommodate her. She and Bill are told to return the following week.

We make our way back to the subway, depressed. Going down the stairs, I suggest that perhaps they can find a justice of the peace in the building who might be willing to marry them. Janet leaps at the idea. After making her promise to call me with what they find out, I go home. Our celebration dinner is still on.

A couple of hours later, Janet calls. After being told to try the nearby New York State courthouse for a judge, they had scoured the almost-empty building until Janet encountered a man in a hallway. "Are you a judge?" she had asked. I can imagine her grabbing him by the arm, eyes glittering like the Ancient Mariner's.

"No," the stranger replied. "Why?"

"Because we have to get married!"

Who knows what the man must have thought.

On their way home, either from exasperation or desperation, Bill gets an idea. Why not check the Web for a rabbi? This strikes Janet as "adorable" since Bill isn't even Jewish. She Googles "wedding rabbi" and finds a young cantor in Riverdale, a neighborhood in the Bronx, who is willing to travel to perform same-sex unions, interfaith weddings, and commitment ceremonies, all in full compliance with state laws.

Janet calls and asks if he will come to their apartment and marry them. He readily agrees to be there at 7 p.m. Since they'll need two witnesses, Janet switches the venue to our apartment. Our dinner guests are informed and asked to be on time. Janet calls the cantor back and changes the time to 7:30 p.m., just to be safe. We busy ourselves finding impromptu wedding decorations, courtesy of Microsoft clip art, and improvise a chuppah—a wedding canopy—out of an old embroidered linen tablecloth that, luckily, doesn't need ironing. My husband finds four wooden paint stirrers and fastens them to each corner of the tablecloth. I quickly polish a silver wine cup, left over from our more religious forebears.

Janet calls me again. When she had phoned the cantor to change the time, he had said, "I'll see you tomorrow." No! The wedding is tonight. In that case he'll have to come at 9:30 p.m., after he leads Sabbath services. It looks like the wedding will still happen.

At 7 p.m. our guests arrive, out of breath and worried that they might be late. The soon-to-be bride and groom arrive shortly after, Janet giddy with excitement.

"Have you got the license?" my husband jokes, but Janet suddenly clutches her head in despair. They have the license, but she has forgotten the glass. The rabbi had reminded them to bring a glass wrapped in a napkin for the groom to smash underfoot during the ceremony, as a traditional reminder of the destruction of the first temple in Jerusalem.

Janet is distraught. "I messed up again," she moans. "My mother always told me that I couldn't do anything right." Here she is, pushing 80 years old and still haunted by her virago of a mother. But the problem is easily solved. Who doesn't have an old mismatched glass and a cloth napkin to spare?

We enjoy our dinner, putting off dessert until later. Promptly at 9:30, the cantor arrives. We have the witnesses, the ring, the glass, and the chuppah. There are candles creating a lovely glow. Even the traffic noises 15 stories down on Broadway have quieted. The clergyman is young, earnest, gentle, and straightforward; he understands exactly what sort of ceremony they want. He has a good voice, and we hold the chuppah over the couple's heads. When Bill smashes the glass underfoot, it is a magic moment for us all.

The cantor leaves and we sit down to dessert, a sumptuous fruit tart with little paper figures of a bride and groom on top. "How lucky that I forgot my photo ID," Janet says joyfully. "It was meant to turn out this way."

And of course, she is right.

Gloria DeVidas Kirchheimer is a freelance writer living in New York City.