In The Garden Of The North American Martyrs by Tobias Wolff Page A

The restaurateur didn’t care what happened after the meal, had no interest in this respect either as participant or observer. All he wanted was to sit under the table while they ate, concealed by a floor-length tablecloth.
    Glen said that there had to be more to it than that.
    â€œNo sir,” Bonnie said. “That was the whole proposition.”
    â€œDid she do it?” Glen asked.
    Bonnie shook her head. “She already had a boy friend, she didn’t need some old fart living under her table.”
    â€œI still don’t get it,” Glen said, “him wanting to do that. What’s the point?”
    â€œThe point?” Bonnie looked at Glen as if he had said something comical. “Search me,” she said. “I guess he’s just into food. Some people can’t leave their work at the office. This other girl friend of mine knew a mechanic and before, you know, he used to smear himself all over with grease. Can you feature that?” Bonnie went at her food—a steak, an order of pancakes, a salad and two wedges of lemon meringue pie—and did not speak again until she had eaten everything but the steak, which she wrapped in a place mat and stuck in her purse. “I have to admit,” she said, “that was the worst meal I ever ate.”
    Glen went to the men’s room and when he came out again the table was empty. Bonnie waved him over to the door. “I already paid,” she said, stepping outside.
    Glen followed her across the parking lot. “I was going to have some more coffee,” he said.
    â€œWell,” she said, “I’ll tell you straight. That wouldn’t be a good idea right now.”
    â€œIn other words you didn’t pay.”
    â€œNot exactly.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, ‘not exactly’?”
    â€œI left a tip,” she said. “I’m all for the working girl but I can’t see paying for garbage like that. They ought to pay us for eating it. It’s got cardboard in it, for one thing, not to mention about ten million chemicals.”
    â€œWhat’s got cardboard in it?”
    â€œThe batter. Uh-oh, Sunshine’s had a little accident.”
    Glen looked into the back seat. There was a big stain on thecover. “Godalmighty,” Glen said. The dog looked at him and wagged his tail. Glen turned the car back on to the road; it was too late to go back to the restaurant, he’d never be able to explain. “I noticed,” he said, “you didn’t leave anything on your plate, considering it was garbage.”
    â€œIf I hadn’t eaten it, they would have thrown it out. They throw out pieces of butter because they’re not square. You know how much food they dump every day?”
    â€œThey’re running a business,” Glen said. “They take a risk and they’re entitled to the profits.”
    â€œI’ll tell you,” Bonnie said. “Enough to feed the population of San Diego. Here, Sunshine.” The dog stood with his paws on the back of the seat while Bonnie shredded the steak and put the pieces in his mouth. When the steak was gone she hit the dog in the face and he sat back down.
    Glen was going to ask Bonnie why she wasn’t afraid of poisoning Sunshine but he was too angry to do anything but steer the car and squeeze the tennis ball. They could have been arrested back there. He could just see himself calling Martin and saying that he wouldn’t be home for dinner because he was in jail for walking a check in East Jesus. Unless he could get that seat cleaned up he was going to have to tell Martin about Bonnie, and that wasn’t going to be any picnic, either. So much for trying to do favors for people.
    â€œThis fog is getting to me,” Bonnie said. “It’s really boring.” She started to say something else, then fell silent again. There was a truck just ahead of them; as they climbed a gentle rise the fog thinned and