A bittersweet Pride in Florida
IT’S BEEN POURING FOR TWO DAYS STRAIGHT, BUT WE’RE on our way to Wynwood for Pride. The Lyft driver complains continuously as he navigates traffic on the gridlocked highway. He says he hates living in Florida, notes that he and his wife both want to move away, but if they do, they want to be 1,500 miles apart, because they can’t be in the same room without fighting.
“I’m going to live in Wyoming, be a cowboy,” he announces, nearly rear-ending a Camry as he turns to look at us. “She can go to California for all I care.”
I take my girlfriend’s hand and squeeze it, twice, the way we always do when we want to remember to joke about something later on when we’re alone. I keep our hands pressed against the seat as I do
