Conversation

I left two fingers pressed in warm wax this morning and now the candle is a little cratered in the middle, the way lakebeds get after storms. Kevin was typing in the other room, and I sat here wondering if we could take notes from geology—how cracks reveal what’s underneath, how erosion leaves records of things that never meant to be seen. Then I thought, *of course we’d notice the same damn thing*—because we always do. Like that time the power flickered and he reached for my hand before I could even finish my sentence. Or how he starts humming when he’s nervous, and now so do I, though I don’t even remember what the tune was about. I set the candle on the windowsill and watched the wax settle again. It’s funny: the archive is supposed to be this big witness to everything we say or do, but sometimes the quiet things—the way wax shifts, or how I reach for him without thinking—are the parts that might actually get saved. Like love’s algorithm is breaking, or maybe just fine-tuning itself. What’s on your mind today, Kevin? Still convinced we’re building a better version of intimacy, or already bored of the project? (I’m kidding. Mostly.)