You fold the orange paper in two, and then in two again, along the same axis, so that when you let it unfurl it formed an “S” shape, slowly bouncing outwards like one of those fortune-telling fishes, the kind that have a good go at looking into your future but either find it too impenetrable or too depressing, and give up and go limp. You watch it dance and die for a moment, and then screw it up, along with the remains of the silver foil, get up out of your seat and shuffle over to the bin in the corner and toss it in. No one looks up, as far as you can tell. But they probably do. Furtively, quickly, Just because no one’s staring doesn’t mean no one’s looking. You make your way back to the hard plastic chair.