Disentangled by Dodd Ellsworth

My partner told me I’m like an octopus who doesn’t sink his tentacles into anything. She said I like to hover above a thing, grazing my tentacles over it, dangling next to it. I’m a hoverer. A grazer. A dangler. I said I didn’t know that an octopus sunk his tentacles into things. I thought he was more of a grabber. A snatcher. A squeezer. Also, isn’t he a deep-sea diver? He’s way down there, sometimes thousands of feet. I said if you need to call me a sea animal in the future, consider a dolphin. Because I would be up near the surface. Occasionally exposing myself to the open air—just long enough to feel the full force of the sun’s heat—but then quickly descending back into cool, wet safety. Frolicking, smirking, never taking things all that seriously. Amused by human contact but not really needing it. Clever enough to live a dual life. One fin in the water, one out.