Kurt had nearly forgotten the comfortable, almost Zen-like quality of riding cross-town in the back of a New York cab. If you focused just so on the passing storefronts and streetlights, you could almost tune out the jostle of potholes and rapid-fire lane changes and just go blank for a few minutes. As they slowly navigated Midtown traffic toward the Flatiron, he listened to the drone of the back seat monitor, playing highlights of last nights late-night talk shows and previews of tonights late news—the anchor breathlessly teasing a story about some questionable financiers latest suspect deal.

It was his first trip back to the city since closing out his apartment nearly two years prior. He could remember supervising as movers taped up the final box and carried it into the service elevator.

And that was that. 

He hadnt looked back. Hed never been sentimental about it. It had been years since the flat could be considered fodder for happy memories, and he spent his last weeks there purging the thought of a soured relationship by planning a yearlong business trip to the West Coast.

A yearlong trip that suddenly became permanent, exchanging subways for starry skies and the adrenaline rush of the metropolis for the contentment of a shoulder to curl into.

He checked his messages. Again. No Blaine.

The handful of trips Kurt had taken since his marriage had always followed a similar pattern. Kurt would land, and a text would be waiting for him.

Land OK?

It wasnt much, but Kurt knew it that those six letters were really short form for I miss you already. Come home soon.

Blaine could have been busy, Kurt reasoned. He knew that his husband had plans for much of the day, including what could be a lengthy meeting with other local vintners about the state of the small tasting room off the Town Square that was casually operated—and more casually maintained—by the small co-op. 

Kurt considered the place a bit of a dump, and a bit beneath Rhapsodys stature, and Blaine had never been fully engaged in it. But with pressures mounting from the local tourism trade for Rhapsody to open to the public, Blaine was now reconsidering his role in the tiny downtown storefront.

Kurt stared at his blank message screen and decided to take the initiative.

7:45p Kurt: Landed safely. Off to dinner w/Q. Call you later?

The speed of the response surprised him. The sparse words did not.

7:47p Blaine: Sure. Busy now. Home by 7

By then, the cab had reached the Flatiron District. Kurt looked at the digital meter and nearly gasped at the amount that he had once taken for granted.

"Long trip for such a short distance, eh?" he said with little acknowledgement from the driver. He swiped a credit card, asked for a receipt, and dashed across the street to dine with a former boss he hadnt seen in nearly a year.

****

Kurt opened the door of the brick showroom-turned-restaurant to a crush of bodies and a decibel level roughly equivalent to that of a jet engine, a once familiar and even welcome dining experience. But after close to two years away — two years of small, hushed restaurants and home-cooked dinners on the veranda — it all felt just a little... alien. He checked his overcoat and surveyed the bright modern farmhouse decor for a familiar face.

She was unmistakable, even at a distance — the striking gold hair, now fashionably shorn into a short bob; the chic, tailored coat dress; the nails manicured to perfection, drumming a bored beat on her martini glass. She sat alone at a cocktail table of wood burl, scanning late-day email on her smart phone. Whatever the time, Quinn Fabray was rarely separated from work.

She looked up, connecting with her former wine editor, offering him a knowing, closed mouth smile.

"And he walks into my life again," she said, leaning in to accept a kiss on the cheek. "Its good to see you, Kurt."

"And how many rounds are you ahead of me?"

"This is the first. I only got here a few minutes ago."

"And you got a table?"

"Kurt, really. Do I ever wait for tables?"

She had a point. When Quinns name appeared on a reservation roster, the citys restaurateurs knew to hold both a dinner table and a spot in the bar for the influential publisher.

She stood up, took a last sip of her drink and caught the eye of her waiter. With a nod, he led them to a private corner of the dining room.

They spent the next two hours making small talk and sipping Châteauneuf-du-Pape, nibbling on a tasting menu the chef cooked custom for the table. They talked wine, and the Taste Challenge and whether the current years vintage would be any good due to the western drought. They talked about everything but what Kurt had expected.

"I have to admit, Quinn, I thought Id get the hard sell tonight, but this has been really nice."

"Hard sell?" she said, feigning innocence.

"Youve just tried to get me to come back so many times, I figured..."

"Kurt. I cant just get together to catch up with an old friend?"

"Um, no."

"What do you say we get out of here?" she said. "We can catch a cab to Midtown and check out the tree at Rockefeller Center, maybe grab some hot chocolate at Maison."

"So, Im a tourist now?"

She flashed a grin and a platinum card.

"It would seem."

****

Bundled up against the chill, they stood at the corner of the Rockefeller Center rink, sipping from steaming cardboard cups of dark hot chocolate. Skaters circled and stumbled.  Tourists gathered for selfie portraits under the sparkling Connecticut spruce looming over the iconic gilded statue of Prometheus.

Kurt quietly took it all in, the slightest hint of a smile on his lips.

"I always tell myself I wont come down here at Christmas, but I always do," Quinn said.

Kurt stared at the ice, and the concentric circles of skaters.

"It just doesnt quite feel like Christmas until Ive seen that damn tree. Its beautiful, isnt it?"

Kurt nodded.

"Do you miss it?" Quinn asked, looking at him.

Kurt focused on the skaters, distracted.

"Hmm?"

"The city," she said.

He set his palm to her waist, steering her away from the Plaza.

"Lets walk," he said. "Its getting chilly."

They strolled arm-in-arm toward Fifth Avenue, stopping to watch a countdown timer projected across the facade of Saks flagship store tick down to zero.

"This years big event," Quinn said. "Its a bigger draw than their windows."

Sure enough, crowds collected along the sidewalk as the clock clicked to zero. The sound of a slightly digitized Carol of the Bells filled the air, and the entire facade of the famed department store lit up with projected snowflakes, which evolved into a dance of zig-zagging green vines, which then morphed into billowing red ribbons tying up the building like a giant gift.

A cartoonish giant snow creature peeked into the display, pulling the screen into a new theme: a group of skaters, circling in Busby Berkeley-like precision across the walls of the store. A set of virtual red curtains then closed on the show, and the countdown timer started anew, emerging from the digital walls like a modern-day cuckoo clock.

 "Impressive," Kurt said. "But I dont get the monster."

"The kids love him," Quinn said, tightening her grip on his arm. "Come on. Lets look at the windows."

They crossed Fifth Avenue and maneuvered their way along the edge of the building, pausing in front of each Christmas-themed window. Animatronic purple-haired elves toiled in a modish ‘60s-inspired workshop in one. The next featured a vampish pastel boudoir festooned with pink cupcakes, icicles and plenty of gemstones. 

Kurt arched an eyebrow and kept moving.

"You never answered my question," Quinn said. "Do you miss it?"

Truth be told, Kurt wasnt sure. Hed considered himself a city boy since the day he first set foot in New York —since long before he ever got to the city, really. And as much as he missed the infinite opportunities of New York City, he knew his heart, and it was currently located in a vineyard tucked away from civilization, deep in the Carneros Hills.

"Who wouldnt miss this?" he said. "The lights, the decorations, the dead rat over there by the curb — its pure New York."

Quinn rolled her eyes.

"Really, Kurt. Do you ever get the pulse of the city out of your system?"

"Yeah, I know. Moments like this? You dont get this anywhere else. Sure, sometimes I miss it. But thats why Im visiting, right?"

"I think its more than that," she said, steering him to the next tableaux. "Theres a pace to this city, and you either embrace it and thrive or you get out. Really, there are two kinds of people in this world, Kurt: New Yorkers, and everybody else.

"And you may live out on the farm, but youre a New Yorker. You live for this."

"I am not moving back to New York, Quinn."

"And Im not telling you to. Im just saying that when I ask how its going for you out there, I really want to know. Because thats not your pace."

Kurt gave her a strong, side-eyed glare.

"You sound like Blaine," he said.

"Oh, now thats interesting. Do tell."

The puff of warm breath escaping his mouth into the chilly December air betrayed Kurts brief sigh.

"He somehow has it stuck in his head that its impossible for me to be happy where I am. That I cant adapt, or that Im bored, or... I honestly have no idea. And no matter how many times I tell him Im happy where I am, he brings it up again, or he gives me that look."

"And that is?"

Kurt turned to face her, then did his best hangdog expression, looking utterly sad and defeated. "He did it again the other night. We had this wonderful moment decorating the tree and then, the question. Frankly, I wish hed just stop. I mean, how many times do I have to reassure him that Im happy right where I am?"

"Maybe he knows you better than I gave him credit for," Quinn said. "Let me ask you something. How come that handsome husband of yours stayed home? This should be a down time for him. The crush is finished, the wines already racked by now."

Because he hates New York, Kurt thought.

"He had business," Kurt said.

"I see," she said. "Isnt he from New York?"

"Yes."

"I would think that the chance to visit family and friends, during the holidays, on someone elses dime... I dont know, I think it would be worth moving some appointments around for."

Kurt could see the wheels turning, the sly smart smile creeping across her face. It was a victorious look, one shed fostered over years of using her wits and grace to force her way through closed doors and glass ceilings.

"Im not moving back to New York, Quinn."

"I havent asked you to. Im just saying that it must feel good to spend time in the city again, to catch up on the new restaurants, the shows."

Kurt eyed her suspiciously.

"Do I need to list the restaurants within 30 minutes of where I live? Bottega? Redd? The French Laundry?"

"Its interesting, how you put that," she countered.

"What do you mean?"

"You said it was where you live."

"Yes?"

"You didnt call it your home."

****

Kurt settled into his hotel room a little before 11 pm, kicking off his shoes and changing into pajama pants and a soft T-shirt that he was sure Blaine wouldnt notice had been pilfered from his drawer. It was a habit Kurt had developed on the now rare occasion that he slipped out of town without his husband.

He flicked on the television to a network affiliate, waiting for the local news, and clicked mute. He settled into bed, phone in hand, and dialed.

"Hello?"

"Hello, husband."

"Hey."

Kurt smiled and sunk into the pillows. The tension he had heard in Blaines voice that morning was gone, replaced with a deep, honey-smooth tone that never failed to act as a soothing balm to Kurts nerves.

They talked for a while about the routine, the mundane, the daily chores and local gossip — the dinner table conversation that had already become part of their daily routine, and that Kurt expected to be a part of his life for years to come.

"How was your dinner?"

"Well, the cocktails were good."

"I bet."

"The food was fashionably procured from local sources."

"The farms of Manhattan?"

"Something like that, yes," Kurt said with a soft giggle.

"And Quinn?"

Kurt paused, and bit his lip for a moment.

"A force of nature."

"As always," Blaine said. "Did she smooth-talk you, or get right to the sales pitch?"

"Not exactly."

"She didnt try to woo you back? It was just a sociable dinner?"

"Not exactly."

"Im afraid Im not following you, Kurt."

"I dont know what to make of it, to be honest with you. It was a lot of catching up, and the usual  — she asked about Santana, of course, but I got the impression I didnt tell her anything she didnt already know. And were meeting at her office later this week, so I think she just wanted to get together, or at least I thought so.

"Shes got this crazy outlook that once youve lived in New York, you cant live anywhere else."

Speaking to silence, Kurt relayed his story of Quinns prodding questions, how she seemed to be trying to convince him that he belonged on the east coast.

When Blaine finally spoke, his words were measured.

"And you told her?"

"I told her I dont live here anymore. I told her I live in a beautiful house, with a beautiful man and a truly spectacular Christmas tree."

"If you do say so yourself."

"If I do say so myself. And as much as I would love to go on and on about it, Im really kind of exhausted. Catch up tomorrow?"

"Of course."

"And Blaine?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"Love you, too."

They hung up, and Kurt grabbed the television remote, turning the volume up and setting the sleep timer. He fell asleep nearly as soon as he hit the pillow, the news of a financial scandal droning in the background.