24

At a private party in downtown San Francisco, Seema watches Obama speak, a glass of champagne in her hand.

“Because of what we did, on this date,” Obama says, “change has come to America.”

The on-screen audience, hungry for a line to applaud, laps it up. Seema wonders briefly what Bill is feeling—he surely must be watching somewhere—but she’s still too mad to dwell on him.

She’d been standing all day on the exit ramps of Highway 101, south of the city, with a straggling band of volunteers flashing reminders to commuters to not only vote for Obama but to vote no on Prop 8 as well. What can you do in one day? Bill had jeered, and he was right. She’d felt too ashamed, too guilty, to appeal to Fiaz for something to do that last day; instead, returning from Reno, she’d signed up to join others like her, last-minute actors jolted out of their complacency as Prop 8’s fortunes reversed.

The previous weeks, proponents of Prop 8 had sunk enormous sums of money into scare tactics: gay marriage would force the state’s churches to participate in sin and its schools to teach homosexuality to children. California would be devastated by earthquakes and droughts. They’d even sent out mailers using Obama’s own words—marriage is the union between a man and a woman, with God in the mix—and the Obama campaign did nothing to challenge them, beyond reiterating that it doesn’t support Prop 8.

The day felt humiliating: the desperate attempts to draw the attention of preoccupied drivers, the forced cheer when one of them honked in response. Even the most optimistic of their group exclaimed as the day drew to a close, “Flinging glitter to the winds—it’s just to make us feel good we’re doing something.”

Tired and hungry, they were shivering as the sun set, when they were asked to head back, the ramps too dangerous in the fading light. People had begun celebrating Obama’s win already, but it felt to Seema, returning to an empty home, like she was participating in an ending, not a beginning. She hadn’t wanted to wait for Bill, though she knew he was on his way back, furious still with his obstruction, his accusations. Nor did she want to spend the evening with Fiaz, awaiting the results of Prop 8. Divya’s call was a relief, the invitation to the party an escape.

The party is in a penthouse suite, glass walls overlooking the city, the cheers and cries of celebration from the streets below only faintly audible. The 360-degree view of San Francisco is impressive, immersive—unlike the view from her home—and she feels like she’s floating midair, encircled by resplendent towers, the landscape and sky a mute, remote background. The interior is dazzling as well: white marble floors, blazing chandeliers, scattered furniture imposing like sculpture, a glossy grand piano, majestic and white. The TV, despite its huge screen, cannot compete with this glitz, and Obama appears washed out, outshone, even his voice sounding thin and tame.