The Gate

I was walking with a friend when he suddenly stopped. "Describe that."

I looked to where he was pointing. "What?"

"That." He touched a blue plastic tie attached to a gate. "I want to see how your author eyes see it."

"So this is a test?" 

"No, it's curiosity." After a moment of me staring at him, he rolled his eyes. "Okay, I'll go first."

This I had to see—or hear, as it were. Crossing my arms, I nodded. "Go ahead."

"The metal gate was rusted," he began without a beat of thought. "Beyond it, there was a door and a sterile looking entrance to a mediocre looking house. On the gate, there was a blue tie." He grinned at me. "Your turn."

Frowning, I looked at the door. I've never been an oral storyteller. Somehow words didn't flow from my mind to my mouth—they went directly to my fingertips. But I'm not one to run away from a challenge, so I went for it. "Every time she saw the blue tie, she thought of him, and it drove her crazy."

"Really?" my friend said.

"Shut up and let me tell my story," I said in my usual sweet way. He made a sign like he was zipping his lips, and when I was I sure he was going to stay quiet, I started again. "Every time she saw the blue tie, she thought of him, and it drove her crazy. She knew he put it there on purpose, so she'd have to think of him. So she'd be reminded of the vivid blue of his eyes, so she'd think of the way he looked at her, like he wanted to strip her clothes and wallow in her body. Right now, she looked at the blue tie as she let herself into her home and thought about the way his hands glided over her. She scowled. She would NOT call him tonight. She'd sworn she was going to play it cool. But her fingers brushed the tie as she closed the gate, and she knew she wouldn't be able to resist."

The sound of waves crashing filled the silence when I stopped talking. My friend and I stared at the tie, not speaking. Then he said, "Have you ever considered being a romance writer? I have a feeling you might be okay at it."