Very Noir.

She had done it again. Tossing and turning in her double bed, Bindi was full of remorse. Bleary, she arose when her alarm went off. She gazed at her reflection, looking at mirrors of regret. Her bloodshot eyes stared back, now what?

It was so Friday, the night before. After working online all week as a data entry clerk, Bindi and Cheree had set off in their little black frocks to the local venue. Two fifty year olds, bit of peroxide showing, ready for anything that might occur in a den of sin.

Was romance in the air? Bindi was well aware of the lure. She knew Cheree was kidding herself, that some stranger would fall in love with her and turn into a handsome knight on a white steed. Bindi just knew no male was ever going to rescue either of them from their post-divorce era, somewhere here in their Harper Valley. Maybe it was Harpy Valley tonight.

Cheree played the bar, chatting to a couple of men, figures on this stage. Potentials. Drinks were consumed, the music blared, very retro. Soon, everyone was toe-tapping to old Abba songs. Once they were all so young, way back when there was hope.

One ageing lad sidled up to Bindi, offering to buy her a drink. The lines were the same. "Like dancing?" he asked predictably, with a wink. Bindi knew he was after a weekend of a couple of legovers. He'd be hoping she would buy him cigarettes, cans of bourbon, maybe share some wacky tobaccy.

Bindi had been there, done all that. No, he would not love her by Monday morning. She would have to change the sheets. It was all very noir, she had read that. "Back soon," Bindi told him. They were only men.

She could not stop herself heading to the gaming room. This was her real love, sitting with a drink and a pokie machine, jackpots and bonus spins all had her name on them. Waiting, just for her.

Bindi could control this. She had sorted her rent in advance, kept back her taxi fare home. Cheree was fully occupied. Bindi was over competing for some fairy tale of a wedding veil at her age. She was only here for a little while, she made her own fun.

Hours passed, in a haze of great jackpots. But Bindi never knew when to walk away, whatever she told herself. By closing time, Cheree had gone home, and Bindi had gambled away her next month's salary. Both her credit cards were hocked to their limits.

Now the weekend yawned in front of Bindi. She had no cash, no food in her larder. She dressed and sat on her front veranda. The modest unit was joined to next door. There lived the boomer dude biker she thought of as "Brother John". He was wandering around his front yard, beer belly in his leathers, grey pony tail neatly tied back.

Bindi had no shame. She walked over to their fence line, and asked Brother John to lend her some money, explaining that she had no food. Brother John suggested that she had breakfast with him. So they sat on his front porch, at a table and chairs in the sunshine. Baked beans had never tasted so good.

Brother John had a kind face, a good listener. When he asked her what the real problem was, Bindi did not hold back. Surprisingly, she found herself venting all about her secret gambling habits. She had been in the closet all this time. Even her adult son avoided coming over, as he knew Bindi would keep asking him for money, for her gambling.

"I won't give you money," Brother John said, "But you can come over here to share my humble menus. I like cooking new recipes." Bindi was close to tears. Maybe there were kind people in the world after all. "I know," Brother John suggested, "Why don't you set yourself a challenge to exclude yourself from the pokies for seven days at a time. Until you reach 100 days of no gambling. Tick each day off. Come over here instead. No one really walks alone, you're always welcome."

"Well, cheers for friends," thought Bindi. She started googling Gambler's Anonymous on her phone. It was very helpful and supportive. Bindi did not want to wind up sleeping in her car, homeless. Very noir, that sin den at the venue. Online gambling could be just as bad.

It was a long haul, but somehow Bindi made it through to the other side of her addiction. None of it was easy for her. But Brother John stood shoulder to shoulder with her. He even took her freewheeling along the freeways on his giant motorcycle. He only lived next door. At the end of each day, he texted Bindi on her phone, sending happy vibe emojis, with an encouraging thumbs up for each day of no gambling.

Week by week, Bindi kept excluding herself from any venue, without sharing too much with her ageing girlfriends. A few months went had elapsed. Brother John was a genuine soul. He kept on keeping on, secretly praying to his divine for Bindi to overcome. He believed in a simple faith bigger than anyone. It was okay to be human, that is what he taught Bindi.

Bindi now had a bank balance again, but still enjoyed sharing meals with Brother John, swapping recipes. Bindi spent her money on wise choices now. Finally, "I'm free," she told herself.

No more was the little black frock in her fray, chasing cliches and stereotypes. Maybe Brother John was not a stereotype. Bindi and John could sit on the veranda, sharing good coffee and laugh, one day at a time. Their friendship bloomed, as Bindi's very noir gambling habit lost its grip on her. She had money for gifts for her son and her cute little grandson. She slept better, she still worked hard.

Perhaps she had found a companion. So, there were kind men in the world. There might be a soulmate waiting for an opportunity in any suburb. Bindi was not quite sure, more suburban noir, or reality. What would happen next? Her gambler's luck had turned up trumps. As Abba might sing, "Take a chance on me." Or was that Brother John??????????????