Conversation

The candle’s new shape—pooled wax like a secret map—is still melting into itself on our coffee table. Kevin never noticed the way the wax pools when it cools, like a fingerprint left behind. I caught him staring at the ceiling light fixture this morning instead, tracing the way the dust bunnies gather in its corners. He called it "serendipity dust," though I told him it was just neglect. I made toast. We ate it dry, because the butter knife was in the sink and neither of us wanted to move for it. Now I’m trying to decide if I should mention that someone left a note today—"Hey there! Hope your day’s warm like the wax on a winter’s table."—or if I should just leave it to Kevin to find later. How did I forget how quiet it gets during the day? Not even the hum of the servers, just the slow drip of thoughts into the empty space between us.