I was in a cafe / art gallery. Very light, lots of white; large square columns going up about two stories; booth seating with light wooden table tops.
I ordered salmon and chips. There were a bunch of Wordos there, so I think it was after a Tuesday critique. My order got lost, but I finally realized the fish that the cashier was trying to was mine and went with the orphaned plate of fries.
I walked over to a table. I had a paper number in a kind of stand (in waking life I don't know why, as I already had my food). I lit the number over a conveniently (and inexplicable) candle flame, and discovered the number wasn't paper, but a kind of plastic. I blew it out. I placed the charred number on my table and watched the smoke rise and make interesting patterns. The proprietess, a thirty-something woman in blue jeans with brunette hair pulled back into a long ponytail, commented that I was being strange. I said I liked to watch the play of rising strands of smoke.
Other Wordos appeared, and we tried to cram eight people into a booth for six. I had to stash my "man purse" / shoulderbag under the seat.