…why I have this compulsion to wash an old pair of boxers after wearing them for the last time, before throwing them out. Why can’t I approach the event with a “one last time for old time’s sake” mentality, then toss them? On some level, do I value the opinion of anyone who happens to go through my trash? Is it simple consideration for those downstream of me in the chain of garbage collection? I…just…don’t…know.

…you were right. As much as I enjoy disagreeing with you, the atmosphere after you left tonight shaped up to be pretty much what you predicted. I was surrounded by fairly unintelligible, inebriated patrons whose slurred speech surely must have been the only obstacle between me and the philosophical epiphanies they espoused.

For lack of a better target, I found my gaze drifting toward the mirror on the back wall of the bar, where I locked on to my own eyes. I am familiar enough with social decorum to realize the air of narcissism commonly associated with staring at one’s own image, but as I proceeded to casually, spuriously, redirect my attention, I came to an equal counter-realization: perhaps we do not stare ourselves down quite often enough.

And so I sat at the bar those next few minutes, looking myself in the eye, wondering what I was still doing there. I never did come up with a very good reason. At that moment I came to understand that what mattered to me had walked out the door several minutes before, and that I should have followed.

Leave it to me.