The kitchen in my flat in New York was squalid. And so was the daily news of Trump. But I have learned to adapt to both
Two autumns ago, on the wide avenue where I live in New York City, I abandoned a bicycle, a bulky blue gift from an ex that had never been quite right. The news in my country was so bad I could hardly speak, and I was single and living alone for the first time and feeling afraid, distracting myself most days with rides through the lacework of tree shadows – but, one day, the chain came loose on my way somewhere, so I locked up the bike and began to walk. This made one less distraction from the question of my tiny apartment, where I was intent on being very happy but where, despite being someone who had once prepared octopus on Tuesdays, I could not bring myself to cook. The issue seemed outright personal at first, the shock of cooking for one, instead of two, but soon I realised it had as much to do with the outer world as the inner, the mornings I woke up to the sounds of children marching in protest against their president. We had just elected a man who thrilled at the mistreatment of women, and somehow anything traditionally female had begun to repulse me.
The collection of vintage cocktail dresses in my closet, printed silk and ruched chiffon, went untouched. As the autumn fell away, I wore a burgundy leather jacket with a sheepskin collar and ate without taking it off – seated in Polish diners where I ordered kielbasa and something called Peanut Butter Pie, standing in the pizzerias under the stained photos of celebrity patrons. From the backs of bodega freezers I pulled mysterious off-brand popsicles, summer’s refuse, and ate those too. I must have thought that by eating this way –a diet strange and piecemeal, a far cry from wholesome – I was disguising my body from the inside out, changing it into something no one could want.
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