The campaign headquarters feels strangely empty and desolate—the volunteers are in the streets getting the vote out. He’d wanted to be here, rather than stewing at home, but there’s little for him to do. By midmorning there’s news of record turnout all over the country. There are some rumors of voting machines not working properly in poor and Black neighborhoods, of people waiting in line for hours to cast their vote, of some voters not being given provisional ballots, but no major disruption materializes. He should be able to breathe easier. But Seema has not been returning his calls or replying to his texts.

“You never intended to return on Sunday, did you? That’s why you wanted us to vote absentee,” Seema had said, her bags packed, waiting for the taxi to take her to the airport. “You do what you need to do, Bill. I’ll do what I need to do—”

“Why, you’ve become a lesbian again?”

“I—never—stopped—being—a—lesbian.” Each word sharp, distinct, as if challenging him to disagree with any part of her statement.

“So what are we doing together?” The two of them in a hotel room, the campaign office a mile away, the hills ringing the town.

“I never said I’d stop being lesbian. I married you, but that doesn’t change everything—”

“Have you slept with any woman since? Are you having an affair?” Both questions carry scorn, revulsion—he cannot make up his mind which one is more damning. “With Divya? Is that it?”

“No! I don’t need to sleep with anyone else to remember who I am.” She’s gone still now, watching him warily. “Bill, you know: I love you—”

“You’re a lesbian again.” He yanks the door of the room open, sending it slamming against the wall. “Just leave, Seema.”

Seema cringes, startled. They stare at each other for a few moments. Then she pulls out the handle of her suitcase and steps out into the corridor. He watches until she disappears into the elevator. He’s still shaking, as if he’d been impacted by the door.

Thankfully, something does come up to justify his having remained here. An unexpected setback: the national hotline that the volunteers are to call, to update the database with the people confirmed to have voted, is unable to handle the deluge and goes offline. This data has to be entered manually now, and the office scrambles as calls and text messages with voter codes begin to pour in. Bill is frenetic, trying to keep up with the incoming barrage of data.

But it’s joyless labor—this was to have been their day, a day together, a day of victory and celebration; he plods on, but soon he doesn’t have recourse to even that as the afternoon advances and voting slows down.