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.

The president-elect is to make an address to the nation in a few minutes. On the screen, the tumultuous crowd gathered in Grant Park, Chicago, a block from the headquarters, anxiously awaits Obama, amid a sea of rippling red, white, and blue, a sparkle of flashes. Bill wishes he were there, or in the Reno headquarters, or even downtown with Fiaz and Pierre, where the moment would seem less unreal, less surreal, less virtual by virtue of the company of others who’d dreamed and labored for this moment.

The wait for Obama to take the stage in Grant Park seems interminable, and at the same time he wishes for Obama to be delayed till Seema comes home. He has poured out two glasses of sherry, he’s microwaved the two frozen slices of cake they’d saved from their wedding party.

A hush: Ladies and gentlemen, the next first family of the United States of America—

Barack Obama steps out from the wings, sober and dignified, leading his younger daughter by the hand, followed by his wife and elder daughter. They are dressed in shades of red and black, the white of Obama’s shirt dazzling in the blue haze of the stage. Obama’s smile, when he first smiles, is almost self-conscious, without his usual confidence. His wife and daughters, too, seem shy, suddenly unsure of themselves. How tiny and defenseless they look as they walk toward the front of the stage and stand there, holding hands, waving at the enormous crowd lapping hungrily at their feet.