So Nevada didn’t matter. A twinge of regret: he should have gone to volunteer in Ohio after all. But who could have predicted such a blowout?

The evening deepens as he crosses into East Bay but seems brighter as the skies clear. I-80 swings toward the water, and he can finally see the faint lights of San Francisco beckoning across the bay. Already the landscape is rosier, dusk but also dawn. Only last week he and Seema were driving this same way, discussing what they’d do if Obama—if they—won:

A house. A tree. A child. The parameters of each are clearer: a house in Piedmont, not Oakland, if they’re going to give their child the best education, as Mame would have wanted; and it must be a girl—he pictures Obama’s younger daughter—with Seema’s eyes and smile; and the tree must be ready to bloom a canopy of scarlet by the time their daughter is old enough to climb it.

The traffic slows to a crawl near the Bay Bridge. Is it an accident? No, it’s the chaos of a street fair, a celebration anticipating the coming declaration: windows rolled down, the air rent with honks and shouts and thumping music, passengers whooping it up through open sunroofs, cars stranded empty, drivers dancing on hoods, leaping about, and exchanging high fives. The vehicles trying to get through are confounded, like lost ants, not the orderly crawl he’d been confident he’d make it through. He’s on the bridge nearing his exit when voting closes in California, and seconds later the election is called for Obama.

He drives home through a city that has poured out into the streets in ecstasy: thronging, dancing, music, firecrackers, whistles. He receives texts and calls from his friends in Reno, all jubilant and boisterous. He joins in their remote celebration, though unable to silence the little voice that keeps pointing out his screwup. He calls Seema, hoping she’ll at least pick up this time.

Their home stands dark. Seema’s car is not in the garage. The only other sign of her return is her suitcase in the bedroom. He switches on all the lights on the lower floor, then the lights upstairs as well, some semblance of brightness to match the festivity on TV.

Fiaz doesn’t know where Seema is either. He and Pierre are going to Union Square to join in the revelry and await the results of Prop 8. Does Bill want to join them?

No, he’ll wait at home for Seema. He stands on the balcony chilled, watching the city, streams of gamboling headlights jolting through its streets. He can hear the distant din of triumphant horns. He remembers their first night in the house officially living together, standing huddled here, awed by the view. He calls Seema’s phone periodically, checks his messages instantly—congratulations, felicitations—but none from her.