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

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

Hosted by Denise, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously…

Prompt word:

CHANNEL

Had the couple been walking along any other sidewalk than one on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, they would have attracted attention, as it was Sister Aclima and her guide were left quite alone;

“I know a spot we can talk, a little café on the corner of Madison and E 82nd Street; nothin’ too fancy, wicker chairs and round tables under a dark-green awning,” with a pause of six strides, (the man’s size resulted in a gait approximately one and a half to each of his companion’s single step), Brother Lymphocytus looked up with a half-smile of questionable provenance, “not that you need extra shade wid’ all the extra fabric on yer head.”

Now it might bear mentioning at this point that a block’s walk in The City That Never Sleeps to a girl raised in Paris Illinois, amounted to a row of stores, a vacant lot and parking for the PennySaver store, not canyons of monied isolation, Sister Aclima followed a man whose only credentials were the fact that he’d located her in a city of eight and a half million souls with barely a how-do-you-do.

As they approached a row of tables on the sidewalk outside the Nectar Café, he pulled out a chair and said, “Sit”.

Momentarily shedding the parochial formality of her habit, the former Kayla Sheperd laughed, her eye brows rising in friendly surrender.

“Ya canna hunt the quarry without a bit of a nosh and a cuppa…”

“Do I detect the roguish lilt of the Hibernian folkways?”

Sitting in a way that allowed him to see all points of approach, the channels of pedestrians curled around the two, frothy rapids of interupted conversations.