Cappuccino

I had been halfway up the hill to my place after a low-key, pleasant but tiring afternoon attending a mixed media painting workshop, when I talked myself into doing a U-turn back to the shopping centre to pick up some groceries. I rarely stop for a coffee but as it happens, because I was tired, and my brain was still trying to make sense of the confused process of bringing glued paper together with ink, acrylic and oil pastel, I decided that I would grab a coffee and spend a few minutes working out what I needed to buy before proceeding to Coles.

‘Can you spare me a coffee?’, I heard to my left as I approached the entrance to the shopping centre. I turned and placed my hand on his arm: ‘Sure’, I said, ‘What would you like?’

‘Cappuccino’, he answered, and trailing a small bright red wheelie bag, led the way to Oliver Brown’s, a café conveniently located within about 10 metres of the entrance. By the time I reached the cafe he was already asking the young woman behind the counter for his preferred coffee. So, not surprisingly she was a tad confused when I said I was paying for the drink and added my skinny flat white to the order. ‘Would you like something to eat?’ I asked and proceeded to order his choice: a passionfruit topped cheesecake and a muffin for me. By the time I had paid for our order, he had made his way to a nearby table.

Finely built, with grisly grey hair and an angry dark-skinned face, he was a picture of dark on dark: navy blue hoody, navy blue jeans and black runners. I reckon he was in his early 50s.

I sat opposite him but on the chair to his left.

As soon as the coffee and food landed, he used the wooden take-away fork to tackle the cheesecake with great gusto. A few mouthfuls later, he extracted coffee sachets from his red bag, opened a couple and poured the contents into his cappuccino and stirred the stuff briskly into his drink.  

‘Wow, that’s a heap of coffee’.

‘Yeh, bought it earlier today’.

‘By the way, what’s your name?’, I quietly asked.

‘Denis’.

‘It’s nice to meet you, Denis.’

‘So, what brings you here?’, I asked.

‘Just out of fuckin Long Bay. Nine months.  Hit the fuckin missus’.

‘That’s not ok, you know’.

‘Yeh but I just smacked her’.

‘Ah ha’, I quietly responded, realising that pursuing the topic was pointless and perhaps a tad risky.

‘Where do you hail from Denis?’. He jerked his head towards the southern entrance, ‘South Coast’ he said. ‘Fuckin Eden’.

‘Do you have any kids?’.

‘Yeh six. But they’ve all gone. Moved on. Fuckin cunts. Spent time in … and did isolation in … for a bit too’.

I think I heard Grafton and Goulburn, but it was difficult to decipher what he was saying, and for some vague reason – perhaps fear of what he would tell me – I didn’t think it was a good idea to ask him to clarify. 

‘Denis, what sort of work do you do?’

‘Labourer, factories, always worked in factories.’

‘Ok, terrific’, I answered feebly.

‘So where are you staying?’

‘Suppose I’ll sleep on the, on me sister’s what do you call it, on me sister’s bloody front ..’.

‘Verandah?’, I offered.

‘Yeh, her front verandah.’

I think he told me that she lives in Eden. As he told me this, I realised that my question was a tad rash, and my shoulders imperceptibly dropped with relief that he wasn’t asking to stay at my place.

At this point I offered him my partially eaten berry muffin. I wasn’t really hungry and had taken only a couple of mouthfuls. He grabbed the muffin and demolished it within seconds.

Placing his Opal card on the table he said, ‘Can you spare me $20? Need it to top up me bloody card. Need to get to me sister’s’.  As I fumbled in the top pocket of my backpack, I wondered whether public transport would get him to Eden. Hadn’t he said his sister was in Eden or did I get that wrong? He stood up, in readiness to go.  I quietly handed over $30 which he slid into his jeans pocket and left the café, making his way speedily along the shopping arcade, his red wheelie bag rolling behind him.

May 2026