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, governed by a sole rule: exactly six sentences in length must stories be.

When last we saw our two protagonists…

Prompt word:

MARKET

“You awake?”

“No.”

The queen-sized waterbed, surveyed and flagged with pheromone-fused pillows and passion-twisted quilts, made clear how mis-named was the once-standard, double bed; surrendering to both the call of Nature and caffeine, the Sophomore wrapped himself in a top sheet that lay on the floor, padded out of the bedroom to the kitchen, started the coffee maker and, after a stop in the bathroom, returned to bed and tried to guess which pastel wrinkled hillock concealed Rosetta’s head.

“If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain,” hearing the nicotine-laced laughter escape from the northern end of the quilts, he set the coffee mugs on the nightstand closest to the window and slid under the main quilt, after blanket-tenting the top half of the bed with his now redundant sheet thereby muting the unforgiving early-day sunshine into beige-tinted morning dusk.

“Hey, glad you could sleep-over,” laying on his side, the Sophomore stared at the rise and fall of the profile of Rosetta’s body; she smiled and finger traced his shoulder down his arm, “Well, if I’d known you lived in this part of the city… lemme just say don’t expect me to come visit after ten o’clock on a Sunday morning; dude, my uncle Lou is a major crime boss and even I had second thoughts about getting out of the car last night.”

“Well, given your rep down at the Café for being scary, I guess I shouldn’t risk asking you to walk down to the corner market and get us some pastry,” PT Barnum would have smiled at the alacrity in construction of the Big Top in a third floor walk-up, in a crime infested neighborhood.