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Now they're fingerspelling in his hand and marching him dizzy round Quincy Market where our little crowd of onlookers has formed, drawn to the sight of their uproarious silence. We watch their language, try to follow.
Presumably he's the one who, hungover, dies into marriage in the morning. But tonight he's theirs, their sport, the ball of banter flying from hand to hand, and each hand seems to add a different twist, a new and inscrutable spin to this game of catch, the whips and throws of their s as noiseless as their laughter is loud.
They snap to attention, salute, park the bewildered bridegroom face-front, guide his hand down the aquiline marble nose, lips, chin, cravat, down to the inevitable crotch! All hands on!
Which cracks them up all over again and even coaxes some titters from us, their emboldened audience daring closer, having trailed them from horse to statue to the doors of the pub they file into, leaving us out. Which is where we were all along, we suddenly realize.
A few of us clap, then look down at our hands a moment before thrusting them back in our pockets where they seem to belong. He makes his living in Boston as a language interpreter. To of his work, visit him at paulhostovsky.