Labels and Hugs.

Over a beer on the patio he commented on my blog. It’s always a kick to have someone who reads 'real' writers compliment my writing.  

Then he said “I’ll probably read about myself in it someday.”

I said yes and he laughed it off and said “You’ll never write about me.”

What I was thinking was No, by the time I write about someone they aren't reading my blog. Usually we are only on strained speaking terms by the time I get around to writing about them, so I don’t believe any of my formers read this blog, even out of morbid curiosity. Not just the ones I block either...

But perhaps he meant it was a goal? A warning? 

How do I get the most subtle foreshadowing in books, but clearly miss the most obvious instances in real life??

Since the night a few weeks back when he came around the table we stood at saying "I can't not do this any longer", put one hand one either side of my head and kissed me, I'd been firmly latched onto the plan that I wouldn't label anything.

Now lets pause for a minute for me to say, I don't really feel like I was properly dressed for such a Harlequin novel statement/moment. I'm sure I was wearing a skirt, as I almost always am, but it wasn't flowing (like in all the romance novels when that kind of sentence comes out) and my skirt was paired with cheap flip flops and a tank top. The scene really called for something with an empire waist, cinched with a velvet ribbon IMO. And heels. Most of my good scenes call for heels.

The night after that almost bashful sounding tease about ending up on my blog, he all but disappeared.

When I finally did see him it was in public and he acted like nothing was going on beyond being buddies. Then I got the friend hug. Not an awkward hug by any means, but not the kind that said "I should come over later...and make you coffee in the morning."

The friend hug can take many forms, but there are things missing from the friend hug that tell you it's not a gateway touch and that you aren't.  

You don't hold on that extra moment to take a breath together.

No possessive hand slides under your hair to the nape of your neck. 

As you step out of it, a hand doesn't run down the back of your arm to your fingers that may gently lace or linger there together. 

As you pull away you don't slide a publicly acceptable kiss on the cheek.

And you do not get the ever elusive fold out move - The one where you leave an arm around his waist and he drapes one across your shoulder and you remain latched from the hug.

This particular incident, er hug, may or may not have included the three pats on the back, the notorious signal for "We're just friends." 

I'm not sure if the pats came because by then my mind was rapidly putting the labels on us that I had avoided thus far. Shredding the romance labels and adhering labels like "friend who you are attracted to and you may or may not hook up with sometimes and will then still treat you like a friend and only a friend." 

Gosh. It's so rare to find quality applicants for that position that I almost forgot there was an opening in my friends with benefits department. 

And, not the least of importance, at this rate he will still read my book when I get around to it.