What a coincidence it would be if I expressed my dismay at required physical signatures, and had to meet my ex tonight. Outside, at a restaurant, I can meet him at the fence. I’m sure he’ll show up dirty, with ripped clothes – he dresses like a fucking slob in ways that must indicate an underlying mental condition – and I’ll graciously stand up from my glass table and full glass of wine, remove a folder from my purse, furnish a pen, and have the entire town (it’s a hilltop restaurant) watch me free myself from that ragged ass street urchin.