Jen and I are at a second floor window at The Duplex, looking down on the crowd waiting for the Pride parade. We're sipping on our alchoholic pink lemonades and feeling very pleased with ourselves for snagging the prime viewing location.

Right below us there are a crowd of multicultural college kids, embodying fresh young queerness. Watching them for a while, we realize they are deaf, they are signing excitedly and you can almost hear different voices coming through in their gestures. The skinny black girl is high pitched. The guy with an afro has a drawl. The white boy has a gay accent. They remind me of my first few years at pride, pouring rum and vodka into supersized McDonald's sodas before my friends and I tore our way up and down fifth avenue.

Next to them there is a rowdy bunch of boys, flirting with all the guys and leading the crowd in chants. Two male cops linger near them, flirting with everyone.

The entire crowd is composed of little groups like these, friends and lovers and professionals and kids.

Right across the street from us, two women and thier baby have camped out. They've got chairs, coolers, friends, all surrounded by yellow CAUTION tape. The baby is a girl. She has peirced ears, and despite the hot sun and loud homosexuals, she remains unphased. The women aren't very like me or Jen. But, whatever our differences might be on the subject of knee length denim shorts worn with timberlands, we clearly agree that two women and a baby are a very real family. They just did what we're trying to do.

"Maybe we should go to that thing. That group" I say. "At the center. For lesbians trying to concieve. Maybe people have advice we can use."

Jen is non-committal.

"But" I continue, crunching an ice cube from my drink, "I hate taking advice."

Jen cozes me in the corner. "We know what to do. We just have to do it in the way that's right for us."

Pride rages.

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