At a small bakery not set up to be a cracker jack retail establishment, as there is always a bunching up of salivating customers at the door, a man was settling his bill. From his pocket seventy dollars — a fifty and a twenty fluttered to the ground. Naturally, everyone pointed it out to him. He stooped down to pick it up with an air of bother, then left his four dollars in change with the cashier. Maybe he left it as a tip because he didn’t bus his own table, where the remainders of an extensive bakery style breakfast sat. I saw a cool glass of water with a slice of lemon floating on top accompanied by a vague impression of various plates with crumbs. Was he distracted by the press of work? The leisure of a Sunday breakfast throwing into high relief all that he had been through or all that faced him in the coming week? A heartbreak caused by a failed romance or his child’s woes? For sure, I’m embellishing. The thing is you can never really know.