"What do you do?"

Like, as a job?

We are making small talk before my appointment. “So what do you do?” he asks. I hesitate. The pause stretches to awkward before I clarify: “like, as a job?” He nods. Of course. That’s what this question always means, one of the first things we ask a new person, our intro to who they are.

“I’m a freelance writer. I work with brands and publications mostly in the pet space.”

It’s a true answer, a brushstroke outline of my “career”, but I spend the next ninety minutes mostly thinking about all the other things I could say instead.

I float on my back in the ocean every chance I get even though Sean just informed me, after we watched Jaws for the first time, that Cocoa Beach has kind of a lot of sharks. Even when a guy running in a backwards baseball cap on Cape Cod says I must be crazy, isn’t it freezing? (I am, and it is, but I am also delightfully alive.)

I laugh at my partner’s jokes, and my dad’s jokes, and my father-in-law’s jokes. I give my niece piggy back rides.

I journal, filling docs with stream-of-consciousness thoughts. Sometimes they become mediocre meaningful-to-me poetry.

I play with my dog. I let her win the tug toy after she puts in real effort. I help her feel tough; I tell her she’s perfect.

I get so excited talking with my most enthusiastic friend that our favorite restaurants know to always sit us in the back. Far, far, far in the back. (I don’t mind—I always have to pee, anyway.)

I wake up from nightmares. I lean into Sean. I ask if he hears the strangers walking past our van, if waking up steps from the beach or our favorite coffee shop in the city will be worth it the next day. (It is.)

I read memoirs and attempt to write my own; I lose myself in psychological thrillers and love that I wouldn’t be able to write my own. I suspend my disbelief.

I point out pretty things constantly. The full moon tinted with sunset pink. An extremely small toad. Primroses that only open their petals at night. Sean’s grin. My friend’s octagonal glasses. A washed-up olive shell that makes me miss my niece. Those little string lights trendy breweries hang above their patios. Fading murals. My own smile.

I love. I spend almost all day every day with my partner and our dog, and if someone told me I had a month left to live I'd say “very little needs to change”.

paws.andreflect

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