When I saw the wooden door I knew--it had to be the one. It was old, older than anything I'd seen around these parts. And the color was exactly as she had described, a shade between turquoise and cerulean. It was set deep into the hand chiseled stone surrounding it, as if guarding something secret. I stood there for at least twenty minutes staring at the cracked paint, the rusted handle, thinking about what she'd said.
"When you find the door all you have to do is step through and everything will be different."
"How different?" I'd asked, my skin prickling.
She'd smiled then, her eyes crinkling, her lovely mouth moving up at the corners, making me want to kiss her. But when I took a step toward her she backed away, her sweet smile turning into a frown.
"If you trust me you'll do it," she'd said before turning her back and walking into the dusk and shadows.
"Wait!" I called out. "How will I know it's the right one?"
But she was gone and I was left only with the echo of my words.
I put my hand on the rusted latch, apprehension moving through my body. Was I ready for this? How did I know she'd been telling the truth? After all we'd only been friends for a little over six months. What did I really know about her? I pictured her triangular face, the pale amber eyes that seemed to see straight into me. She looked like a pixie or a sprite, as though she might sprout gossamer wings and fly away.
I breathed in and out, picturing her waiting for me on the other side. My heart was racing. At first the latch resisted when I pressed down, as though it wasn't sure I had a right to be here. I pushed inward with my shoulder, feeling the stickiness of age and disuse, hearing the groan of rusty hinges, and then it swung open.
So you get the picture--(no pun intended) Now go for it!