On Market Street, slipping in and out of the morning brume and festooned with ribbons and rainbows, pinwheels and pennants, they strolled like characters in a storybook, bouncing and laughing down the groaning thoroughfare like people who knew everything would turn out OK in the end.
One man held a sign: “Congratulations to all the newlyweds!”
A woman nearby, waiting for the crowds to push ahead and the parade to begin, studied the multitudes and turned to her partner.
“What an awesome fucking year,” she whispered.
“The best,” said her partner.
Tens of thousands, streaming, dancing, laughing and flashing, holding hands, kissing, singing — a giddy, elated movement rolling inexorably forward and adding one more to its number.
“Emme likes to wave,” she said later, rubbing her eyes. “Emme likes to pride parade.”