This is one of the plates my ex and I bought for our kitchen when we moved in together, hopeful and giddy. He had more money than he knew what to do with, but for some reason (me?) we went with a collection of heavy, mismatched things from the bargain bin at the back of a giant kitchen store in Chinatown. He left them with me when we broke up; furnished his new kitchen with a full set of posh, smooth green hand-me-downs from his brother, a businessman in New York. I moved in with a friend, who had her own dishes, and these ones went in a box under my bed (his old mattress; my new frame). They give me a jolt when I go looking for winter boots or canning supplies. A friend suggested I take one out and smash it whenever I got especially mad at him (my grandmother had a set of teacups for just that purpose) but the years go by and they sit there and I don’t like breaking things anyway.