A Hug, Like Some Other

A dear guy friend of mine, Engineer, is a hugger. I like it. I'm a hugger, too, especially when the person on the other side of said hug is a he. (As context: Engineer was the boy I went "snowboarding" with last month.)

A couple of weeks ago Engineer came up behind me as I was sitting down and wrapped his arms around me in a standing hug. It was amazingly similar to the way ExOfNote used to hug me when he would come up behind me while I was on the computer. It was tender, sweet, slightly awkward, and a tinsy-bit possessive. I loved it. All of those things made it my hug: the one I knew I was the only woman to ever receive from him. So, you can imagine the emotions that said hug managed to trigger within me. I've done little but I think about ExOfNote—brushing my hair I remember how he would caress my head; washing my hair I remember how he loved the smell, I wonder if he would, still; sitting on the couch I think of how we would cuddle there, just enjoying each other's company. I. can't. get. him. out. of. my. head.

That's why I haven't written much, I'm afraid I would fill page after page on him, when he's the last person on whom my thoughts should be dwelling.

I've tried to drowned out the voices and the thoughts by watching movies. Movie after movie has played constantly on my computer when I've been home alone. I've tried to read him out: I'm on my second book this week. I've tried to flirt him out, but no guy I talk to seems to compare. So, I do what I do best in times like this: I build up the walls that keep others out, and I art. I painted last night, and I'm quite pleased with it. I think it needs a touch more work—mostly in the black areas, but, generally, I'm satisfied. What does this painting mean? Mostly, that I love my art, that it gives me a voice I can't find in type. But, more than that, perhaps, that you can't hide emotions from your art. The minute you press brush to canvas, they're there, whether you want them to be, or not.