He was old. Not that old that he should have been in a wheelchair. He struggled to get over the small step into the café. Staff obligingly assisted and he settled on a long bench which ran across one of the walls. He seemed to enjoy the sun pouring through the window at his back.

“Skinny latte, thanks, nice and hot,” he said to the waiter who ambled off.  The visitor looked around. It must have been his first visit. He stared at an inscription on the opposite wall. Under the writing sat a girl, well a women, maybe thirty years old. Olive skin, probably not from Australia, maybe Brazil.  Half that country seems to reside in Manly. Black beret, large muffler scarf and curly brown hair, that fell to her shoulders. She was typing messages into a computer. Occasionally she would pause then laugh and cover her mouth with her hand.

The guy in the wheelchair seemed transfixed. He looked at her and pondered. He was obviously thinking. His  coffee arrived.

“Thanks very much,” he nodded and pausing in his revere, looked up and smiled at the waiter.

“Thanks for helping me get in here. It’s quite a business being in a wheelchair.”

“No problem, happy to help,” the waiter said.

The visitor sipped his coffee. He looked over the top of his cup at the girl across the the café. It was a cavernous distance that separated them. She looked up.  For a fleeting moment their eyes met. He looked away. Embarrassed. She hardly noticed him and went back to her typing. She would occasionally touch the side of her head and tuck her hair behind one ear. Sometimes, she would bury her lower jaw in the coloured waves of her scarf. The man in the wheelchair exuded longing. Loneliness and longing seemed draped around him. He was at an age where women render men invisible. It happens at 50. He was probably about 60 and at that point a man can only be a burden to a woman. The days of lust are not finished for a man though it’s not permitted to bubble to the surface and wander inside a beachside cafe. A man of this age can still appreciate female beauty but he must not touch. Regret and longing kept on a short chain. The visitor knew that if he wheeled across and spoke to the girl she would probably call the police. Fragile as a raindrop and as unattainable as the dark side of the moon, she was from a place that was now forever closed to him. She was from the place of his youth, when he could have got up, taken his coffee and sat down and talked to the girl.  She may have been flattered, she may have welcomed the attention. Who knows where it would have gone from there.

The cafe was quiet. Occasional car on the street outside, the boom of the surf on the beach across the road. Bookshelves on the walls gave it the feel of a library. Low hum of conversation. It was a peaceful coffee shop. The visitor took it all in and tried not to look at the girl but failed. He was mesmerised by the timeless beauty of a young woman.

Calling for the waiter, he paid for his coffee, maneuvered himself back into the wheel chair and negotiated the small step out of the cafe. Soon he was in the street rolling away.

The girl did not look up from her laptop,

She had not even noticed he was gone.

We went into the bar and sat on high stools and drank a whiskey and soda.

“That drink’s mine,” Mike said.

“Let’s roll for it.”

So we rolled poker dice out of a deep leather dice-cup. Bill was out first roll. Mike lost to me and handed the bartender a hundred-franc note. The whiskeys were twelve francs apiece. We had another round and Mike lost again. Each time he gave the bartender a good tip. In a room off the bar there was a good jazz band playing. It was a pleasant bar. We had another round. I went out on the first roll with four kings. Bill and Mike rolled. Mike won the first roll with four jacks. Bill won the second. On the final roll Mike had three kings and let them stay. He handed the dice-cup to Bill. Bill rattled them and rolled, and there were three kings, an ace, and a queen.