The complimentary newspapers had not been delivered to the cafe. We, the workers, didn’t mind so much, though, because papers are extra work, tending to over the course of the morning become splayed around the room—over the benches and floor—as if about to paint walls.

That I didn’t have to gather the scattered pages back into a presentable heap inspired delight, frankly. But customers didn’t necessarily share that feeling.

“Where're the papers?” A man said.

The rain was loud on the aluminium roof. The music, too, was loud. “What?” I said.

“The papers.”

“Oh. The papers didn’t arrive,” I said.

“So, no papers then?” he said, leaning over the bench like I’d hid them there. The man had high-waisted pants and a polo shirt tightly tucked and smelt of a David Jones’ cologne. He also wore a jacket too small for him.

I poured milk into a takeaway cup next to a docket that said, Skinny Latte for Fran. I called the name. “No. No papers,” I said to the man.

He sighed then. Had slumped shoulders.

The woman whose name I called still hadn’t collected the coffees yet. The rain continued to be heavy. The man didn’t go outside but stayed in the sheltered cafe, ordered a coffee anyway.

—

I accompanied my parents to a party as a teenager. The event was for a 50th or perhaps a 40th. And in the backyard was a long table decorated with canapes, cheeses, a few flowers and, chiefly, a tier of individual custard eclairs which had, underneath, a sign that said, “Please Don’t Eat, Yet!”. The table was lit by festoon lights. The whole back was, in fact, plus many other decorations.

I hadn’t seen a spread like that before. As a child not of the mansions we were now surrounded by, I was more used to spreads of packeted chips poured in plastic bowls, celery sticks and cheap cheese cut to tiny blocks. Definitely no Parisian sweets.

Naturally, I thought to take advantage, believing the opportunity may not come again, and began with the cheese, then moved to the bowl of macadamia chocolate balls and, finally, to the eclairs for I did not notice the sign.

The exact reason for eating about an eighth of the total number of eclairs is still unclear. Though I suspect a rapacious need for that which was so glamorously displayed and limited and morish had a role to play. I would’ve continued to eat far more had I not finally caught sight of the sign.

Mouth full of custard, I stashed three eclairs in my jacket’s pocket before tip-toeing backwards to the side alleyway. And here, I watched the host realise the chunk of eclairs missing. The tier looked as if a bowling ball had fallen on the side, you see. She called to the people in close company, “Who’s taken the eclairs? Someone’s taken the eclairs!”

“Oh dear,” a friend next to the host said. “Maybe the children did.”

“It was for after the speeches,” she said and took a long breath, looking down, eyes shut.

“I know, dear.” The friend placed a hand on the host’s shoulder.

“Bloody children,” the host said.

“Bloody children,” I said, shaking my head. Behind a recycling bin, out of view, I fished out an eclair from my pocket where I didn’t feel three pastries but rather a pool of custard with flaky chunks. I scooped a handful of custard, anyway, into my mouth. A glob fell, naturally—down my white shirt and onto the crutch of my pants, now ruined.

—

When the papers did finally arrive, the man jolted up and in also a rapacious fashion snatched two papers: The West Australian and The Australian from the bench. The cafe was unusually packed with people taking refuge from the rain. So the remaining complimentary papers quickly disappeared, too.

The man was reading The West Australian while the other paper was safely reserved for later viewing under his elbows. A customer walked up to the man and said, “Excuse me, mate, could I read that paper?” He pointed to The Australian laying under the elbows.

“I’m using it,” he said, without detracting his gaze from the paper, and then further hunched over The Australian the same way I’ve seen a bird protect hatchlings.

He stayed for a long time, around three hours, reading from cover to cover and nursing the one flat white which was now cold before, finally, standing up and asking whether he could take the crossword home.

“Of course,” I said. “Just the crossword, though, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Just the crossword.”

He took the crossword page out and into his jacket. Approaching the exit, he also put the West Australian in his jacket, the entire paper. And before I had a chance to call him out on it, he exited outside. The rain still fell hard. The man pulled the jacket over his head. He was still getting soaked, though, as were the papers, now ruined.