If I think of him now, I think of the smell of sweating White Castle hamburgers. I lived in Clinton Hill, in Brooklyn, around the corner from a White Castle, a place I had never considered entering because of its vaguely white supremacist name. But he didn’t make the connection, and so when he would come to my apartment to drink and smoke and have bumbling conversations about politics, what passed for a relationship between us, he would bring the bag of hamburgers. “You want one?” he would ask, every time.
“No, thanks,” I would say, willing myself to ignore the grease smell and giving him more vodka so that when we finally did make out, he wouldn’t taste like a burger.
The White Castle stood on its own on Atlantic Avenue. I think we went there only once, late at night, on a hot July evening. I remember that while he ordered, I put a quarter in the toy vending machine and got a small, cloudy plastic egg. When I opened it at home, later, inside was a third of a roll of police tape, screaming the word “caution.”
“You don’t see how messed up this is?” I said to him. “Forget not even knowing where this restaurant got this. You don’t think it’s messed up to act like this is a toy for children?”
“You’re overthinking it,” he said.
Which, perhaps, tells you everything you need to know about why that relationship eventually ended.
The White Castle is still standing, just abandoned. It’s covered in torn dirty fabric that sways in the wind and pieces of the sign are missing, but every time I pass it now, in the car with my partner on Sunday morning errands, I say, “I used to go to that White Castle —”
“With that jerk you dated; yes, I know,” he says.
He has his own map of past love. There are the parks and corners that we’ll walk past, and he’ll remember another time, walking hand in hand with someone else, many summers before.
If you live in New York long enough, and date and make friends here, you have your own secret map of the city and the places that make you nostalgic, that make you wish it were 10 years ago, that make you thank the powers that be that time doesn’t stand still.
Freddy’s hasn’t been on the corner of Dean Street and Sixth Avenue for years but every time I pass the place where it used to sit, I think of the night a few writer friends and I got into a tiff with some poets from N.Y.U., left a bar in the West Village to buy worth of Gray’s Papaya for friends who stayed at the bar, returned to find the place closed; stood for a moment on the corner wondering how we’d get nine people and 25 hot dogs to Brooklyn to continue the party; and were blessed by the arrival of a white stretch limousine, out of nowhere.
The driver offered to take us across the bridge if we each gave him . We told him to take us to Freddy’s. We arrived at 1 a.m. and stayed until 4 before we shuffled in a stumbling group to my apartment to sleep it off. When I pass that corner, that’s all I see. I imagine it will always be all I see, even as yellow cranes build one imposing, impossibly priced condominium development after another in its place.
That’s a memory of platonic love, not romantic. But when all the places you associate with that emotion become a ghost map you can begin to see two cities every time you leave your home. The one as it is today, and the one that exists in your memory — purer, dirtier, sadder and happier than anything you experience in the now.
In an interview in Claudia Tate’s 1983 anthology, “Black Women Writers at Work,” Toni Morrison said: “Love, in the Western notion, is full of possession, distortion and corruption. It’s a slaughter without the blood.” She understood the idea that women are sold, that love requires transformation, and she saw how dangerous that idea could be. “Under the guise of change and love, you destroy all sorts of things, each other, children,” she said.
I didn’t have those words when I was younger. I knew only that I resisted this bargain of love for a very long time. I did not want to be changed, or rather, it seemed that there were other things out there — books, writing, experiences, friendships — that I would rather have change me first, before romance did. It is a battle, when you fall in love and marry in your 30s, to figure out which parts of yourself you are willing to change in order to hold on to this emotion that is so fleeting and can have so many little rewards.
Change is also part of our understanding of the city — that it must constantly be changing, destroying itself and communities that people build, in order to grow and live and stay powerful. What does it mean to make your home in a place with this appetite for transformation? “I don’t know how you can live in New York,” my sister sometimes says to me, and I used to want to say back to her, “I don’t know how you can live in a marriage.”
Now, though, I am married myself and this city keeps remaking itself. Some weeks, like last one, when the sun was out, and I walked down the street near my apartment and an older West Indian woman fell into step beside me and started pleasantly talking about the neighborhood and described the YouTube video her friend sent her from Barbados, it feels like the only place I could ever live.
Other weeks, when I see three different restaurants with the same blond wood, air plants and gold-accented interior, and one of them has a sign that proclaims that it accepts Bitcoin, I think this is the last place on earth I should be trying to take root.
I am only one year into marriage, but I can say for me, it has been a continual rebuilding of the self, of how I react, or not, to my partner, of how much space I make for care for another person while continuing to care for myself. But that doesn’t frighten me anymore. The bars and restaurants and parks and coffee shops and rooftops and warehouses and basements of all my romantic adventures and failures have been torn down and had start-ups built in their place.
But in the years that was happening, I read my Toni Morrison and then my Octavia Butler. “All that you touch you change,” Butler wrote. “All that you change changes you. The only lasting truth is change. God is change.”
Kaitlyn Greenidge is the author of the novel “We Love You, Charlie Freeman” and a contributing opinion writer.
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2019挂牌跑狗图彩图【陈】【丽】【丽】：“【等】【茶】【室】【开】【起】【来】【了】，【群】【成】【员】【来】【喝】【茶】【全】【免】【费】。【而】【且】【我】【们】【依】【然】【可】【以】【在】【这】【里】【自】【己】【做】【饭】。【我】【会】【专】【门】【弄】【一】【个】【大】【厨】【房】【给】【大】【家】【显】【身】【手】。” “【这】【个】【构】【思】【不】【错】【啊】。” “【有】【创】【意】。” 【这】【倒】【很】【有】【意】【思】。 【刘】【建】【国】：“【先】【不】【说】【赚】【钱】【与】【否】，【光】【是】【后】【一】【个】【想】【法】【我】【就】【要】【支】【持】，【如】【果】【环】【境】【好】【的】【话】，【我】【都】【可】【以】【介】【绍】【不】【少】【人】【来】。【因】【为】【我】【那】
【嗡】！ 【恐】【怖】【澎】【湃】【到】【极】【点】【的】【力】【量】【气】【息】，【在】【整】【个】【天】【穹】【之】【上】【汹】【涌】。 【整】【个】【天】【剑】【宗】，【无】【数】【弟】【子】，【护】【法】，【长】【老】【们】，【都】【是】【在】【观】【战】【之】【中】。 【他】【们】【神】【色】【紧】【张】，【盯】【着】【场】【上】【的】【宿】【命】【一】【战】。 【此】【时】【此】【刻】，【萧】【禹】【手】【中】【握】【着】【那】【尊】【盘】【武】【仙】【塔】，【眼】【神】【中】【神】【光】【闪】【耀】。 【他】【每】【一】【次】【轰】【出】【盘】【武】【仙】【塔】，【都】【像】【是】【一】【尊】【巨】【人】，【握】【着】【一】【个】【最】【恐】【怖】【的】【杀】【伐】【重】【器】，【像】
【次】【日】【清】【晨】，【云】【天】【霁】【起】【了】【个】【大】【早】。 【天】【还】【灰】【蒙】【蒙】【的】，【她】【利】【落】【地】【下】【床】【穿】【鞋】，【顶】【着】【一】【头】【乌】【黑】【柔】【顺】【的】【散】【发】，【走】【到】【了】【窗】【边】，【推】【开】【了】【窗】。 【远】【方】【的】【黑】【云】【渐】【渐】【被】【深】【蓝】【色】【的】【云】【朵】【取】【代】，【天】【将】【要】【破】【晓】【的】【样】【子】。 【她】【望】【着】【远】【方】【的】【天】，【神】【情】【凝】【重】，【也】【不】【知】【道】【在】【想】【什】【么】。 “【叩】【叩】。” 【她】【的】【房】【门】【突】【然】【被】【人】【敲】【响】。 【云】【天】【霁】【先】【是】【一】【愣】，
“【给】【我】【一】【把】。” 【高】【发】【拿】【到】【钥】【匙】【这】【才】【开】【了】【口】。 【冷】【荷】【冷】【冷】【的】【看】【了】【一】【眼】【高】【发】，【随】【后】【开】【了】【锁】，【推】【开】【门】。 【高】【发】【正】【要】【挤】【进】【屋】【子】，【冷】【荷】【一】【把】【关】【了】【门】，【差】【点】【夹】【到】【高】【发】【的】【鼻】【子】。 “【哎】！【到】【底】【还】【是】【不】【如】【别】【人】【受】【欢】【迎】。” 【高】【发】【说】【完】【后】，【拿】【着】【钥】【匙】【去】【开】【了】【自】【己】【的】【门】。 …… 【第】【二】【日】【一】【早】，【高】【发】、【冷】【荷】【二】【人】【出】【了】【归】【客】【居】，2019挂牌跑狗图彩图【那】【辆】【飞】【往】【美】【国】【的】【飞】【机】【啊】，【她】【还】【是】【没】【能】【够】【上】，【那】【张】【被】【握】【在】【手】【心】【的】【机】【票】【啊】，【皱】【巴】【巴】【的】，【洛】【依】【对】【自】【己】【说】，【这】【一】【次】，【办】【不】【成】【大】【事】【就】【不】【要】【回】【家】。 【从】【机】【场】【走】【出】【来】【的】【洛】【依】【也】【不】【再】【是】【以】【前】【的】【女】【学】【生】，【她】【的】【目】【光】【里】【充】【满】【了】【黑】【暗】。【拥】【有】【无】【邪】【美】【貌】【的】【她】，【只】【要】【愿】【意】，【很】【快】【洛】【依】【便】【依】【附】【上】【一】【位】【权】【贵】，【凭】【借】【她】【的】【美】【貌】【和】【智】【慧】，【很】【快】【那】【波】【曾】【经】【对】【她】【穷】
【一】【共】【三】【个】【世】【界】，【两】【个】【真】【实】【世】【界】，【一】【个】【梦】【境】【世】【界】，【白】【攸】【自】【己】【选】【了】【李】【飞】【月】【这】【个】【世】【界】。 【虽】【然】【有】【选】【择】，【但】【是】【三】【个】【世】【界】【都】【是】【她】【需】【要】【完】【成】【任】【务】【的】【世】【界】，【所】【以】【只】【是】【先】【后】【问】【题】【罢】【了】。 【【哟】！【小】【璃】【子】，【在】【你】【心】【中】【我】【是】【这】【么】【嗜】【杀】【的】【人】【吗】？】 【【当】【然】【不】【是】，【主】【人】【是】【世】【界】【上】【最】【完】【美】【的】【人】。】 【【呵】！【马】【屁】【精】。】 【【主】【人】，【我】【这】【是】
【眼】【前】【这】【位】【女】【子】【微】【微】【一】【笑】，【当】【真】【是】【一】【笑】【而】【百】【媚】【生】，【羞】【花】【闭】【月】【之】【态】【似】【乎】【星】【辰】【都】【为】【她】【疯】【狂】，【花】【儿】【都】【为】【她】【绽】【放】。 “【我】【叫】【陈】【相】【依】，【是】【崂】【山】【区】【域】【的】【野】【修】【修】【真】【者】，【小】【弟】【弟】【你】【叫】【什】【么】【名】【字】？” “【啊】？【原】【来】【你】【也】【是】【和】【鸟】【人】【一】【样】【的】【修】【真】【者】【啊】！【呃】……【我】【叫】【李】【毅】，【是】【无】【名】【山】【中】【无】【名】【村】【庄】【人】。” “【哼】，【你】【干】【嘛】【骂】【我】【鸟】【人】【啊】！”【陈】【相】【依】【噘】