The meeting had already started by the time I tuned in. A thin voice came through the laptop speakers, reading from a printed agenda about “winter recovery measures” and “allocation adjustments.” The microphone made each paper shuffle sound like distant thunder. Someone coughed off-mic; someone else adjusted the chair too close to the table. Democracy as percussion.
Outside, Main was nearly empty. The plows had pushed the last of the snow into uneven ridges that looked like timelines—what had happened, what hadn’t. The streetlights flickered against them, unsure which layer to illuminate.
The council chair thanked everyone for their patience. A citizen spoke about potholes that could “swallow a compact sedan.” Another asked why the city still hadn’t fixed the pedestrian signal near 9th and 2nd. His voice cracked on the word still. The moderator reminded him that comments were limited to two minutes.
I muted the feed when someone began a preamble about fiscal prudence. The heater cycled once; its low click filled the room like punctuation. From the street came the sound of a truck tailgate closing, followed by a dog’s bark that echoed off the storefronts.
When I turned the volume back up, the meeting had moved to closing remarks. The chair thanked the citizens again, the way you might thank someone for staying awake. The gavel strike landed too hard—an accidental applause for endurance.
The stream ended, but the laptop screen stayed lit. For a moment, the camera feed still showed the empty room—chairs, a flag drooping against the wall, the microphone tilted like a tired witness. The hum of fluorescent lights filled the silence where civic duty had been. I closed the lid, and the reflection of the City Hall flag vanished from the glass. Outside, the night resumed its usual governance.