Every detail of those Sunday afternoons is locked in my memory, but instead of explaining me and Blaine right off, I'll start with the world's most delicious and absolutely delectable cheesecake, as served at the Junior's nestled in Grand Central Station in New York City.

Even at ten years old, I could appreciate the creamy custard, crunchy graham-cracker-crust, and the perfect pile of strawberries oozing over the sides of my generous slice of personal heaven.

Sat across from me at my table at Junior's was Blaine; without a doubt the most handsome man I knew, or have ever known, for that matter.  Not to mention the kindest, funniest, and probably the wisest.

On that day his warm hazel eyes watched me gape unblinkingly at the waiter as he seemed to place my dessert in slow-motion in front of me, followed by Blaine's choice: a simple strawberry sundae, hold the almonds but extra whip cream.  The latter request was always for my benefit--he'd smile fondly as I'd reached across the table to scrape it all off and dish it on top of my own plate.

"Thank you," Blaine said politely, blinking up at the waiter.

To which the waiter said--not a word.

Junior's wasn't the fanciest place in New York.  And the one in Grand Central could not compare to the history of Times Square, but that is something my child's brain didn't appreciate.  But that afternoon, like every afternoon we were there, it was bustling with busy-looking people hurrying past or occasionally meandering into our world of tradition and dessert.

"All right," Blaine leaned back in his seat.  "It's time to play the Kurt-and-Blaine game."

My eyes lit up, immediately scanning the area around us as I fidgeted in my seat.

Here's how it worked:  One of us pointed to a table or someone passing by outside, and the other had to make up a story about those people.

"Go," Blaine pointed to a guy huddled in a corner, beanie pulled over his head as he poured over several books sprawled next to many cups of coffee.

My eyes slid over him then back to Blaine, "Student at NYU.  Poli-sci major.  Worried about getting into graduate school.  Harvard.  Possibly--hmm, well, probably--Columbia."

Blaine cocked his head at me before laughing.  "You definitely spend too much time around adults.  That was pretty good, though, Kurt.  You get a point."

"Okay," I clapped my hands in front of me and scanned the restaurant.  I gestured to a man a few tables away from us.  "That man right there.  The one that looks like Cary Grant.  What's his story?"

Blaine considered him for a moment.  "He's come from Connecticut to celebrate his anniversary," he begins easily.  "This is where he met his wife, but she passed away several years ago.  But he still comes every year."

"Oh," I said, looking down at my lap.  I let out a sigh, pushing my fork around on the plate before reluctantly taking a bite.  "Yeah... I guess that could be true."

Blaine's eyes widened.  "Wait, Kurt, look!  I got it wrong.  She's here," I look up to see a woman with fiercely red hair take the seat across from the man and take a sip from her water-glass.  "She's telling him how happy she is to still be with him after all these years."

"Oh that's a much better story, Blaine," I said, smiling now.  "You get a point.  Fantastic."

Blaine looked relieved then looked over my shoulder and smiled.  "Here's one you won't get."

I got up on my knees and peered over the back of my booth to see the man and woman sitting a couple tables away.

The man was about forty years old, casually dressed but looking uncomfortable in his simple button down shirt.  Every now and then he'd reach for his head and make a strange halting gesture before awkwardly running his hand over his balding head.

The woman he was with was about the same age, with a kind smile and even kinder eyes.  My nose still scrunched up at the sight before twisting back around to face Blaine.

"That's not funny," I said, but I couldn't help grinning and rolling my eyes at him.

Because the couple was my father, Burt Hummel, co-owner of Bell Books as well as Hummel Tires and Lube, and Carole Hudson, nurse and my father's current girlfriend.

I looked back at them again.  Anyone looking at them would immediately know they were happy together.

Every Sunday afternoon when Blaine and I had dessert at Junior's, my father and a friend--sometimes a work partner, sometimes a girlfriend, sometimes he came alone; nowadays it is always Carole--had dessert and coffee there, too.  That way he could talk business or just chat and keep an eye on me at the same time.

The Junior's in Grand Central was perfect because afterwards, we would always hop on a train for SoHo.  It was all a tradition my mother had started and my father kept up, even if he didn't understand it.  I loved the pretty window designs and he loved how happy it made me in the way only those trips could make me.

Sometimes he cut them short: helping run two businesses was hard on him.  And after he met Carole, they got shorter and shorter.  But of course, I was okay.  I had Blaine for company.  Blaine, who was my best friend in the entire world, maybe my only friend, when I was ten years old.

My imaginary friend.