A Persistent Pressure I can’t remember where I heard it, of course. You never can, just so

A Persistent Pressure I can’t remember where I heard it, of course. You never can, just some anonymous platitude that lodges in your brain like a stone that somehow found its way into your shoe, and you let it sit there because you’re far too busy to pull it out right now, but suddenly you grow used to the way it digs into the sole of your foot, and then the stone is an avalanche, a giant cascade that defines a scary amount of yourself. At the very least, it dictates a little of your behaviour. When girls play with their hair, they’re ‘into’ you. That’s the concept, heard somewhere, somewhen, that got lodged in my brainshoe. It’s a tick that I can’t help but look for, to assess where my standing lies. More than that, it’s wrapped itself up as framing a girl’s hair as a sort of aphrodisiac, that one aspect that I can’t help but pay extra attention to.  But it’s not just about playing any more, is it? It’s about seeing how it lies across your face when you’re blindfolded, the intrusion unnoticed and uncared for, pressing concerns distracting you elsewhere. It’s about sliding my fingers through that beautiful mess, and catching at the odd knot, only to press a little harder, force them clear, and watch you wince and smile at the same time.  Meanings tumble from each, until there are too many connotations and too many behaviours to properly catalog. But then that was never the intention; it was just that one association, snowballing into all the others. But lately I’ve been asking myself a question, as my hand slips around a braid, or just a handful. I give it a light tug. Curious. If you playing with your hair indicates arousal, what happens when I’m the one making every follicle scream? -- source link

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