Things move along

The smart, handsome, fun, funny man was named Jay. And somehow he seemed inordinately fond of me (well, though I'm an acquired taste there are worse out there...). So we dated, despite the almost insurmountable physical and cultural distance - yes, he lived in Brooklyn and I was a suburban Long Islandite.

He did the traveling, I did the cooking, we did the romancing.

His trip started with a walk to the NYC subway. Two subway lines later, he'd catch a Long Island Rail Road commuter train, and finally be transported to my car waiting (when I wasn't late) at the station in Suffolk County. Every Saturday he'd leave Brooklyn for the 2+ hour trip. Every Sunday I'd drop him at the train for the return. And what did he get for his weekly pilgrimage? Dinner, cooked as only a never-tried-this-before new chef can manage. Good thing he was used to bachelor life since his divorce, and didn't expect much in the way of culinary artistry. OK, we also found time for some other stuff that may have made the trip worthwhile, but that's not what the story is about.

This once-a-week visitation thing went on for a while. About five years, actually. I worked in a suburban office during the week, and he worked at a NYC firm, and we both saved every penny that didn't go into MetroCards, 10-Trip Tickets for LIRR, or food. And I happily puttered in my garden and used duct tape to fix my house. And he subwayed back to Brooklyn during the weeknights and fell into bed, alone, exhausted after a 12- to 15-hour day at work.

But then it got interesting....