The other two hadn’t actually voted.
They had intended to visit a polling station that evening, but the rain and a change of plans had got in the way. By the time they were ready to go, it was too late.
So there we were: six people, two political preferences, and only four votes actually cast.
“At least we have the right to vote,” one of our guests said.
For a moment, the table fell silent.
In front of us sat a large hotpot, divided into two. One side was bright red with chillies, the other filled with clear broth. One guest was trying hotpot for the first time.
“Let’s eat,” someone suggested.
For once, everyone agreed.
Soon the broth was bubbling, meat and vegetables were cooking, and a large platter of sushi brought by a friend from her own shop was making its way around the table.
Bella, my dog, spotted a little space behind one of our guests and promptly squeezed on to the chair. Peering over her shoulder, she watched the food with great interest.
She had no political opinions to contribute, although I suspected she had very strong views about the meat.
Politics had been difficult to escape that week.
At work, one colleague mentioned which party they intended to support. Another immediately asked, “Why?”
Someone else said her entire family supported the same party, and voting differently was not encouraged.
Apparently, some households had settled the election long before anyone reached a polling station.
Facebook was no quieter. In the final days of the campaign, politicians shared photographs, messages and even handwritten notes in a last effort to win support.
Beneath their posts, supporters offered encouragement while critics made their feelings equally clear.
Democracy, it seemed, was not short of opinions.
A few days earlier, I had cast my vote at Rotorua Central Mall.
I didn’t want to leave it until the last minute. As it turned out, there was no queue. I walked straight in.
At the voting booth beside mine stood a young woman in school uniform, marking her ballot paper.
I found myself smiling.
There was something quietly reassuring about the scene. No speeches, no arguments, no one demanding to know why anyone had chosen one party over another.
Just people making their choices in private.
Outside, the sky was blue, and a gentle breeze drifted past. The whole experience had taken only a few minutes.
Back on election night, after my guests had gone home, I checked the results, paying particular attention to Rotorua and the party I had supported.
The preliminary figures were in, but many votes still had to be counted before the official result could be declared.
I thought again about the two missing votes at our dinner table.
Two votes might not change an election. But how many others had intended to vote and never quite made it?
Having the right to vote is one thing. Making it to the polling station is another.
I also remembered the silence after our guest’s remark.
Around our table, nobody had to hide a political preference. Nobody risked losing a friendship over a ballot paper.
We could disagree, question one another, laugh, and then pass the sushi.
In some places, such an ordinary evening might not be quite so ordinary.
Around midnight, thunder rolled across Rotorua. Lightning flashed, and rain swept through the city.
I wondered how many people across New Zealand were still awake, checking the results.
Some would be celebrating, others disappointed, and a few perhaps refreshing the numbers in the hope that another look might improve them.
By Sunday morning, the storm had passed. The sun was beginning to appear.
The weather had settled. The election result would take a little longer.
I thought back to our dinner. The food had been delicious, the conversation lively, and Bella had remained hopeful until the very end.
Our hotpot had offered two choices: one side red with chillies, the other a clear broth.
Everyone was free to choose whichever side they preferred.
And somehow, we had all managed to share the same table.
