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

This is the Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Which is hosted by Denise each Thursday. (The bloghop, not the Doctrine.)

This week’s prompt word:

BEAT

Light, refracted from the rows of liquor bottles behind him, threw a red, gold and blue corona along the back edges of his linen suit coat as the tall, thin man smiled at Mimi; to the side of the fresh cup of coffee he set down in front her, he added a small box with “Drink Me” written in well-intentioned Comic Sans, “You’re the Proprietor most likely to hear from Tom, I trust you don’t mind holding onto this?”

Propelled by the near-palpable goodwill of the Proprietor, he moved out into the open area of the Café on a heading towards the low stage on the right side interior wall; surrounding it on three sides were tables arrayed like coral reefs, and, as with actual reefs, what mattered wasn’t the outcroppings as much as the variety of life they nurtured.

The man moved with a grace that somehow combined the best of martial arts and runway models, carrying what, for all the world, appeared to be a plain brown-paper bag, as in: (the) ubiquitous carry-all found in supermarkets to transport sundry family victuals; (usually) located in the clothing-shaded backs of bedroom closets, full of paper and diaries, books and childhood mementoes and, through a time-forgotten topological transformation on a September Sunday evening, was the raw material of impromptu text book covers.

“And for Ford, we have,” stepping up to the stage, his announcement was interrupted by a gender-duet as Denise and Nick, chimed, (for surely their tone harmonized like Poe’s first two bells), in a single voice, “An Oil Can!”  “A Giant-fricken Pocket Watch shaped like a Heart…”; their synchronous celebration dissolved into laughter, like a sea-green comber failing to escape the endless thirst of the shoreline sand.

Without missing a beat, the Proprietor used the outburst of good nature to continue his passage, tacking now, off to his left, bound for a darkened alcove in the furthest corner of the room that glimmered with a purple shade and whispered with a voice as reflective as introspective.

Standing on the western coast of the lacquered table, holding out the last item, he smiled to Jenne with the acknowledgment that captains of two fishing vessels might exchange on a close passage as they journeyed to and from the sea, “Might I impose on you to hold this for Chris, while her itinerary is still subject to conjecture, this table, in this alcove will be the first place she will stop on her return.”