Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

Today we join Denise and them at the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Rules are simple. Using the week’s prompt word as a starting point, fashion a sentence, write a tale, describe an adventure. Just make sure it ends on the last of Six Sentences.

Try it. Today. As in ‘now’. (We’re all counting on you. Don’t forget to link in to the homepage of the ‘hop, at Girlie)

(Who said, “What’s up with the photo of Bogart?”  A picture of Bogie at the top of a Six tells us this week’s Six is drawn from the world of our favorite first-person detective, Ian Devereaux. By the way, what follows is inspired by a scene in the last chapter of ‘the Case of the Missing Starr‘, which, if you haven’t heard, is a serial story I’ve been writing and posting on ‘the Facebook’. If you’re so inclined, click on the link and you can enjoy the story from its beginning.)

Prompt word:

EXCHANGE

Tuesday evening is as quiet as it gets at the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge, which was fine by me; all I wanted was to forget Chicago and people with too much money, too much power or an insatiable desire to bend the world to their will.

Through the glass and stainless steel door, rhythmic waves of color painted the curtains behind the small dance stage and on the far right, the calming glow of neon behind the bar dividing the club from the lounge lit a single row of booths, for people wanting to be alone, just not all by themselves.

The hostess station was missing it’s hostess, as I said, it was Tuesday; passing through the smoky haze and attenuated music that crested the wall of liquor bottles behind the bar, I headed towards ‘my booth’, which was next to last in the row along the street side windows.

Diane Tierney, sitting in the near-half of the booth, was writing on a paper grid; surprising myself, I slid in next to her and, in my best Bogart, said, “Whats this joint got that’ll make a man forget his troubles and believe in love?”

Turning her head enough to shimmer the curtain of chestnut hair half-hiding her face, Diane smiled from the corner of her eyes, pushed into my right arm with her left shoulder and said, “From what I hear tell, in affairs of the heart, the frequency of the transaction pales against the medium of exchange.”

Her eyes, transformed into singularities that, like their counterparts in distant galaxies, drew me close; seeming to grow larger, they tempted me to ignore my descent towards whatever lay at their center.