In the kitchen at girlfriend’s house chatting, I’m on a swing-by quick visit. She’s telling me about her day. I’m leaning in, her hair and skin looking good. She’s got a narrative drive happening. Suddenly she says, "And what are you up to?”.

The day hits the brakes, stops. Wait. I got this. I know this one.

I’ve been right here listening, even with all the distractions; the curving fit of her sweater, the monk-moaning noise from the fridge—,  and just outside the window, the raw colors of Oregon popping and beckoning, like a childhood sweetheart yelling, "Come on out!”.

It’s a simple sort of ask: "What’s going on…with you?"  Projects underway, accomplishments. The near future.  

I could say, "I made a sandwich".  But even if perfectly true, putting it at the top of the list is not that funny. Had I forgotten to take a medication?

And not answering right away;  slowly nodding, pausing to think it over, might also be disconcerting.  A check-engine light coming on just as I start singing in the car.  

It would activate that beautiful gal detective look. 

She once told me that the world is my oyster. So I better get to it. The shucking, the jiving.

But instead, I’m an animal newly returned. I zoom gently in on her neck and start there. One kiss. Then another,  saying…."This. Just this. I’m up to this”.