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.

Divya is giddy. She’s on her third glass of champagne, prattling away as she weaves through the crowd, dimpling as she greets the Silicon Valley movers and shakers. There are few Asians here, few technocrats, few women—the assembled are mostly venture capitalists and angel investors, the majority White, and almost all men. And Divya moves among them—in her midnight-blue mesh gown, with its silver-threaded spider web and its plunging V-neck—like a princess. No, a courtesan.

Seema had been in no mood to dress up in anything more fancy than a teal flared dress, and initially she’d felt self-conscious arriving at the party, although Divya assured her she looked gorgeous. Still, under the champagne’s influence, she finds herself slipping again into old habits of performing charm—easy laughter, rapt attention, the occasional admiring glance—as if competing with Divya for the approval of these men. If nothing else, the performance serves to take her mind off what awaits her in her own life.

She’d turned her cell phone off, vowing not to check her messages or the internet until she’s in a calmer frame of mind. But there’s a buzz building in the room that she can’t avoid hearing. Originating from the cluster of men by the piano, well-groomed and obviously gay, the bitter murmurs ripple through: