In the Castro, a lover returns to his apartment earlier than expected and finds it empty. Not wishing to spend the rest of his evening alone, he sets out in the hope of locating his boyfriend at one of their usual haunts. But repeated text messages go unanswered, and after checking bars for some time, he gives up and returns home, changes into pajamas, and climbs into bed. He gives a friend a call to check on her, to offer and seek sympathy, but gets no answer from her as well. He’ll eventually fall into a fitful asleep. Later, he’ll be vaguely aware of another body joining him under the sheets. He’ll turn automatically to his side, so that the length of his partner’s body is pressed against his, comforting, the way he likes it.

In Oakland, in her small tomb-like studio a lover lies awake in her bed, dry-eyed, alone. When the phone rings, she springs to answer, but it’s not her girlfriend, and right now she doesn’t want to speak with anyone else. Her mind replays the evening, reenacting the moments so it doesn’t end the way it did: banished from the only world she wants to inhabit, the enveloping warmth of partner and child. She’ll drift through the night, waiting for the phone to ring.

12

In Washington, D.C., a president who’d once proclaimed the virtues of hope has woken up in the middle of his sleep, despondent. His party is poised to be trounced in the upcoming midterm elections, and with the House passing into opposing hands, he may not be able to achieve anything more before his current term ends. He may even be denied a second term.

I am firm in my belief that the interests we share as human beings—justice and progress, tolerance and the dignity of all human beings—are far more powerful than the forces that drive us apart.

He’s feeling a little sorry for himself: his opponents are proving more adversarial than expected, united in the goal of denying him any success, viciously rooting for his failure. He’d tried working across the aisle, as he’d promised he would, wooing them with concessions and compromises, which they’d rejected, rousing their base against him.

He’s a little bitter too: his own supporters seem to be turning against him as well. They already seem to have forgotten that he inherited an economy on the brink of collapse, a military mired in two wars, a nation under terrorist threat. Instead of having his back, they take pride in whining about how disappointed they are, condemning any compromises, and protesting pragmatic steps as too little, as if perfect failure were somehow more admirable than imperfect success.