Chapter 2 Abbe

flexes fingers, cracks neck. Breathless hush.)

Jerrod Kuchter sighed. It was late evening in the Lower East Side and their adorable corgi, Georgi, (which didn't rhyme, for reasons Jerrodd could never figure out,) was begging him for a walk. The young but still dashing publishing magnate rose from his leather swively chair and began to look for the leash. Where was Abbe?

How had it ended up like this? Five years ago he would have been making calls from his swanky Midtown office before heading out to an evening of models and bottles with the other guys from his finals club. But that was B.A. Before Abbe. Now he ran his publishing empire from one room in their tastefully appointed loft, to conserve money and planetary resources. Abbe, in her capable, unyielding way, had directed his former expense account to saving pandas and sending kids to college. And before he knew it, the finals club dudes had disappeared from his speed dial. Something about the Porc no longer being kosher.

Then there was the Observant. "If your paper is pink, it might as well BE pink," Abbe has sweetly uh, observed. It was tough at first, with the editorials on universal health insurance, 90% tax for the rich, mandatory dissolvement of all corporations. And of course, not all of these ideas were accepted. But important conversations were happening. By Year Three of his tenure as publisher--his and Abbe's eighteen-month, three-week two-day anniversary--when the Observer's citizen journalism coverage of "Zionism and Integrity" led to a real, meaningful cessation of Israel-Palestinian hostilities, Jerrod could do none other than applaud. It was Abbe's hand at work.

And it all seemed so easy! Sure, there were Abbe's feminine charms. And her brain--Jerrod didn't know who he would have talked to at that Nobel dinner without her knowledge of physics. But most of all, and of course, the thing that had drawn him to her first, there was her chicken soup. Remembering the soup, Jerrod groaned.

If only she would marry him! But this was her argument: "Jerrod, I told you, I won't marry you until all my friends can do the same."

"But I don't want all your friends!" (Except for Kate, that one time when she wore that dress, but Jerrod wisely forbore to mention that.) "I only want you."

"No, Jerrod, I mean until all my friends can legally marry."

"Pumpkin, I told you, I called Governor Spitzer yesterday. He's moving up the date of the bill signing. We can get married Tuesday!"

Abbe sighed kindly. "In EVERY state, Jerrod."

Jerrod groaned. Of course, he would continue pouring money into the Federal Marriage Inclusion Act lobbying, just as he had into the Jewish Service Corps, Habitat for Humanity and something called WOFIGO University. What else could he do?

What else would make him this happy?

He snapped from his reverie as Georgi barked. Where was Abbe? They needed to go to the Lower East Side Market for some schmaltz.