The few permanent spectators are often men who’ve come to protest, holding banners saying something about Christ and sin and the promise of our eternal damnation, but there is always a group of us surrounding the man like a bubble, holding signs of our own: THIS GUY NEEDS A HOBBY! Half the joy comes from watching our own, turning around to see everyone who walks behind us. Many look like someone I might know or see at a party—youngish dykes in bowling shirts—but my eyes always drift to those I might not have encountered were it not for this day: silver-haired couples in matching blue Hawaiian
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