They held hands as they hurried along Boylston Street. One was slightly taller than the other, and a little less fidgety. The sky was getting darker – it was about to rain – but they had a parade to attend. I watched them, following a bit behind and furtively catching a few photos. It’s not every day that I get to see two guys holding hands while walking down a public street. (I get looks for wearing plaid pants in downtown Albany – I can’t imagine the scene if I strolled down Pearl Street hand-in-hand with my husband. Well, I guess I can, and it’s not pretty.) Luckily, this was Boston – and this was Gay Pride – and no one even cared.
Their hands intertwined, then released, idly slapping one another’s knuckles, then rejoining their fingers again. They looked like two guys excited to see a parade, to take part in the day. Maybe it was the first flush of giddy love, when you’re not really sure where anything is headed but you can’t help hoping. Maybe they were just friends, joining hands in solidarity for the day. Or maybe they were married – in Massachusetts that’s legal. Whatever the case, it was good to see.
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