So, there are no Daily nor Weekly, nor otherwise Planet's nearby for this woman to have. She adjusts to this new reality and asks where else she might find one. I suggest she walk the six blocks to a certain favorite restaurant of mine which I know carries the Planet, but as I'm hopeless at giving directions, I finally suggest she ask someone else.

This she proceeds to do, since just as I make this suggestion a well dressed, middle aged, professional-looking man walks into the coffee house. As he's walking past, the well dressed middle aged woman - we'll call her Woman A - asks if he knows where she can find a certain very famous donut shop.

"Not a Krispe Kreme," she says, "but a real donut shop where they make the donuts fresh every morning." The man looks puzzled by this sudden interruption of his obvious quest for a particularly fine cup of coffee, most likely a latte, in fact, but stops in front of Woman A to consider her question.

"I'm not sure what the name is," continues Woman A, "only that my son told me there's an ad for it in this week's Daily Planet. It's an old donut shop that's been around for years."

This last statement suddenly brings to life an older woman, perhaps in her mid to late 60s, dressed in soft, designer blue jeans, a light tan silk shirt, with well fashioned grey hair and nicely accessorized glasses.

"Oh, you mean Kirshes Donut shop," the woman we will refer to as Woman B offers, "they used to be called Dad's, but now they're called Kirshes." Woman B, continues with even more information, "I met my current boyfriend there for our first date four years ago. I'm a Wilkins, the daughter of Morgan Wilkins."

At this point, the middle aged, professional-looking man who we will refer to as Man A speaks, "Right, Dad's Donut shop. I didn't realized they'd changed the name. Great donuts. The best in town." And with this he passes through our growing crowd of donut shop hunters and heads off to the coffee counter for his latte or cafe au lait.

And then it gets weird.

Woman B lets us all know that she can read minds because she's a Wilkins; apparently they all read minds. Perhaps she realizes what she has just said is unfashionable and she restates her claim, "well, perhaps I read personalities. But only intelligent ones. I knew when I stepped into that donut shop there weren't any intelligent people there because I couldn't see any of their minds." At this point I make a brave attempt to depart the conversation by busying myself with a study of the amount of dust collected on the keys of my notebook computer. But, Woman A jumps right in.

"Really, no intelligent minds in the donut shop? I can certainly relate to that since I live in Clearwater, you know, Sci Fi Central."

And Woman B goes on "You see, my father was a great man, he was the son of the Queen of England but she thought he was crazy and sent him to America. She disowned him and he never forgave her."

To which Woman A responds, "That's such a shame, he must have been very lonely. I've had a few relationships like that, myself, and I know how difficult that can be."

"But my husband, he didn't speak for thirty years, and when he did his voice could fill a room," Woman B continues. "He was absolutely insane, but he made great films, though he was black listed during the war."

So, this conversation continues for another twenty minutes. Twenty minutes! Two people who've never met are having two completely different conversations for twenty minutes. They act as though they're each hearing totally plausible responses and queries from the other person, but they're not even on the same planet, weekly or otherwise.

Woman A finally decides her conversation is over, excuses herself and walks over to the coffee counter to order a latte or an espresso, and Woman B falls silent. Just as Woman A orders her coffee I chance to glance up from my dusty keyboard and notice Man A walking outside, past the window I'm sitting next to. He's got a cigar in one hand and a 1950's Schwinn Cruiser in the other. He's walking down the sidewalk with an ancient Schwinn and a cigar. What's that about? Where am I?

Who needs the X-Files, I've got a front row seat at my coffee house.