I took out my own card.

And I asked, very politely, to speak to the manager.

I kept my voice pleasant, because what I was about to do required no anger to carry it and anger would only have made it look like a tantrum instead of what it actually was, which was a decision.

Chapter 8 — My Portion of the Bill

The manager came over at once, a composed man in a dark jacket who had clearly spent the evening aware of the large celebrating party in the alcove, and he asked, warmly, whether everything was to my satisfaction.

The service has been wonderful, I told him, and I meant it, and then I laid my card and my driver’s license on the stand and said the sentence I had been building toward for two years without knowing I was building toward it.