An hour each way on a wet Wednesday is the real question

Look at where we are on a map before you write a word. Then look at where you are, and picture doing it on a Wednesday in July, in the rain, in both directions, after a day at work. That is the actual question. Everything else about us is straightforward by comparison.

Thirty eight and thirty nine, the western suburbs, three years in. Two arrangements. The first man came from the north shore and lasted five months, and the last six weeks of it were him arriving visibly tired before anything had started. The second lived twenty minutes away and ended for ordinary unrelated reasons, and it was a far better five months.

We are not asking anybody to prove devotion by driving. We are asking for the sum to be done honestly and early, because both of us would rather hear no this week than watch enthusiasm curdle into resentment by the end of winter.

We can host, which helps. Spare room, no housemates, and nobody close enough to notice an unfamiliar car. That is worth something out here even if the distance is not.

What we want is somebody unhurried who sees us twice a month for a long time. Not looking for a man who will propose we come to him every single occasion. Not looking for anybody who agrees the drive is nothing and then cancels three Wednesdays in a row.