Finding Edith

I'll just stop here for a latte, I say. Won't take a minute. I'll meet you over on East Side. 

It's one of those confusing joints where nobody goes for the first time. Sandwiches and soup to students and profs, but they must pour coffee too.

Very complex labyrinth of aisles and ferns and high counters, and no more signs that you find in private homes. 

I just smile and walk and now I'm near the kitchen. Coffee?, I ask. 

Edith will be with you. Oh, she's away?
Okay, step this way. 

Now I'm out in a leaf-shaded parking lot. I open my own door and we sit down, me because I believe this must be how it's done and the others I don't know why. Maybe like me they aren't really sure about procedure. 

We go then we stop in a residential neighborhood. This must be where Edith lives. We wait. One steps out, goes around the corner. Returns; sits in my ride again. Another exits and goes another way, and then another. Doors are opening and closing like in a cab, only we aren't moving. 

I expect always that everyone is more attuned to the general environment than I am, only I don't want them to know that. 

After too long a time, I look around. I am alone. 

Maybe they just didn't have the heart to tell me there is no coffee. 

It's too late to meet the others at East End. I consider. I could just leave my auto and walk to the house. (It isn't my primary residence but I'm staying there.) it's a long walk but I can do it. Just stride off down the street. 

But ... why?  Besides, I don't have a key to the house. 

Through the rest of a long afternoon, no better idea presents itself. 

Tim Bowden is twiddling his thumbs on his  iPhone 4S!