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

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

Hosted by Denise, it demands one qualifying characteristic: to be of precisely six sentences in length,

…when last we saw the tall, thin man

Prompt word:

BENEFIT

“You may be wondering why I brought you here,” the tall, thin man smiled as he let go of Rosetta’s hand and stood at the one table equidistant from the bar and the small stage halfway down the interior wall of the Six Sentence Café & Bistro.

Pulling out one of the four chairs serrating the round lacquered-wood table, he paused while staring into the semi-mirrored top, an odd moment of 21st Century scrying; lightly touching the back of the young woman’s knees with the chair’s leading edge, he seated her in full view of the Proprietors who, at the present moment, were gathered in the open doorway to the kitchen behind the bar.

“We can see you staring… you know, from here,” with the unselfconsciousness of a healthy preadolescent boy, the Manager continued with a very respectable Pee-wee Herman, “Why doncha’ take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Rosetta Storme tried, (unsuccessfully), to maintain what she was certain was the demeanor of the sophisticated and slightly dangerous young person, but as with many of her generation, fell short, if for no other reason than even with the unalloyed benefit of a full life rolling out before them, the ‘less-is-more’ inflection tends to be elusive in concept, near impossible in execution.

“So you’re trying to warn me about your little friends, don’t worry mister, I can take care of myself,” the young woman leaned forward over the table, her pupils dilated as the tall, thin man took the visual bait, she was unable to refrain from a smile of premature triumph even as the Proprietor refused to look up in the embarrassed confusion most men exhibited when walking into her trap; despite her confidence, a small coterie of hair follicles were coming to inappropriate attention over her eyes, precursor to a frown of uncertainty.

“You misunderstand me, Miz Storme,” the tall thin man sat back and lit a cigarette, “While this whole ’employment opportunity’ has been a courtesy to your Mr. Caesare, my warning to you is quite sincere: you should be considerate of the others here at the SSC&B not just out of common courtesy, you should be…careful, as the difference between you and the people at the bar, (including Chris behind the display in the Bartender’s phone and the Gatekeeper in the wisp of cigar smoke), is that while you may have power, they are the manifestation of Will.”

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