Per pushed the scrap of paper onto the floor and stared at the remains of his chili.
“You dropped this,” the waitress said, handing the paper back.
“It’s not mine,” he said.
She shrugged and carried it off with her armload of dirty dishes.
He mashed the last cracker crumb with his spoon.
“Is this yours?” the busboy said, holding the paper out.
“Not mine,” Per said.
The busboy ignored him and left it on the edge of the table.
Per took out his lighter, lit the corner of the paper, held it for a second while it caught flame, and dropped it into the chili.
“Hey,” the waitress said.
“Sorry,” Per said. He rose and left a five-dollar bill under his water glass.
The air outside was sharp. He zipped his jacket.
The door opened behind him. “Is this yours?” the manager asked, and handed him a scrap of paper.
#









