The seven-decade marriage between Donald J. Trump and New York City, like all of his most volatile relationships, was never going to end quietly.
Rejection at the ballot box would not be the final word. Decampment to Florida — another septuagenarian Manhattanite in nominal retirement down south — would not disappear him in earnest.
Felony convictions? Reconcilable differences, it seems, for one evening anyway.
On Sunday, Mr. Trump is bringing his presidential campaign to Madison Square Garden, the brashest stop in a final election stretch that has showcased the race-baiting, bravado and grievance-soaked distortions that defined much of his New York life and have only been amplified since he left.
The appearance is a remarkable gambit even by his standards — a show of force at “the world’s most famous arena,” to use the venue’s own Trumpian superlative.
More than anything, though, it is a reminder, a provocation, a warning: New York will never be rid of him entirely, until death parts them.
And he will never be done with New York.
“To him,” said George Arzt, a veteran of city politics who first met Mr. Trump in the 1970s, “this is a conquest.”
