She ran a painted finger along the tiny X's and O's stitched into my shirt and excused herself to the ladies room. When she returned I was gone. The chilly night air in Park Slope offered no explanation, but somehow the wind on my face lended assurance that what was done was absolutely necessary. Such are the results of nights spent with strangers while one is disconnected from their heart, at odds with their mind. On these nights, while hailing a cab on the frozen street, one realizes how firmly they are set in their ways, that they are exhausted from the endless figuring out of things and all the dutiful note-taking that comes with it in the hope of finding a clear & clever new stratagem for change; you realize that it is time to pitchfork it all into a roaring bonfire.