What happened on Election Day: a simple account. We awoke at 7: my time of day. Greg pretended to be awake and we got cups of coffee for the walk. The day, as most people will remember, was clear and starting to get cold-- the sort of cold that makes you say, "I feel ALIVE!" like my dad always does when jumping in the Maine ocean.
We took our civic stroll, feeling very much a part of this town-- past the banks and Greg's office, past the museum and what amounts to a town square. Into the library, where we breezed past local politicos standing just next to the border of where they are allowed to solicit. As we went in, an old man with a walker, nasal tubes, a nurse, and an "I VOTED TODAY!" sticker went out. There was no line and we were properly registered. I filled in bubbles. The only part that was hard was discerning the double-negatives of the question about the town water supply. We had time for a second coffee. Like I said, my time of day.
I was on time for work, which I bragged about, along with the second cup of coffee. I had a lunch meeting that I found stressful. The afternoon passed without excitement and I taught my children's acting class. "Obama is flushing this country down the toilet!" said an eight-year-old.
Improv stops for no man, or pair of men, and we rehearsed in the studio we own. There is no record of what we did, but I believe it was the night that the Drinking Glass became a Ninja. And that glass was Greg.
When it was over we went to the local art cinema where everyone was despondent. Things seemed bad to everyone who was there-- but to us their spirit simply seemed tired. I ate popcorn for dinner, and the whole, sad evening drew to a close.
As I was hugging someone goodbye, Ohio was called. "It's over," everyone said, suddenly upbeat. "This is it." Somehow it seemed unreal and unsatisfying. No one believed.
We went to a bar to believe. I had unquantifiable beer and said, "I'm not leaving until there's a concession speech," and then there was, and we left.
Greg and I went home and put on the radio. It was his time of day now. All of the gleeful button-pushing and coffee and walking had dissolved into a half-drunk, dehydrated sense of victory. I wanted the cold sharp promise of the unknown morning again. I'd gotten what I wanted, had believed in-- and I was too tired to love it. Isn't that always it? We heard the President's voice and, not having a television, skittered down to the lobby of our apartment building and watched the acceptance.
"Math," I said, having followed Nate Silver, "goddamn math is amazing."
"Yes it is," Greg said, "yes it is."
He told me of all the technologies coming in the future, like a bedtime story. He'd told me these kinds of things before and always been right. It was hard to believe, but now I believed. I believed everything tonight "Math," I said, dozing off in the lobby chair. "Math."