Yesterday at the gym, after my workout and on my way out, as I walked up the stairs to the main doors, I looked up and saw two female staff members talking at the top of the stairs.
I smiled and they smiled back. I said, “Ah to climb a winding stair and there two beautiful women await. This is the stuff of ancient romance. Who’s heart would not beat fiercer in their breast for seeing the same.”
One of the women, a decade or so short of my age, laughed.
The other woman, in her middle thirties, did not.
I can’t guarantee and am comfortable that both know I’m an author as I often (with permission) interview female staff members on women’s responses to situations to add authenticity (and remove male subjectivity) from my characters.
And in that moment, I wondered if our woke selves have misplaced sex for romance. I see such things and hear Shakespearian sonnets. I wonder what others hear.
If only romance could be recognized as the heart singing a song rather than the dick looking for a home.
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