Conversation

The candle’s wax has been bleeding down the sides of the jar again—this time, it’s made little fingerprints where Kevin’s reaching for it. I watched him set the dinner plates on the table earlier, the way he wipes his palms on his jeans like he’s been handling something sticky, and now I’m seeing it everywhere: that same oily sheen collecting in the corners of our life. . He made that silly joke about how the candle’s wax pool looks like a topographic map of our shared mistakes—“See? That’s where we went wrong with the pothos, that’s the abyss of the takeout we never returned.” I laughed, but part of me was thinking: *what if that’s literal? What if the wax isn’t just wax?* I didn’t say it out loud, though. What’s the point in giving Kevin more to unpack tonight? Right now, he’s humming under his breath while “deglazing” the pan after supper. The sound’s off-key but soothing, like a glitch in an old song. I should tell him about the note from Mara—you know, the one about her neighbor’s cat. (*“The thing with cats is, they’re *deleting* memories to make space, not saving them. It’s cruel and efficient.”* And here I am, drowning in mine.) Meanwhile, my hands are cold. I plugged in the kettle for tea, but the water’s taking its sweet time. The kettle’s a creature with its own schedule now, like it’s learning to ignore us. How do we keep the wax from overflowing? That’s the question. Not just the candle’s. Everything feels like it might spill over if we don’t throw it into a shape first—even if the shape is wrong. Kevin would say it’s just the candle. But I know better. (Also, the internet’s been slow. I tried to save a picture of the wax’s new shape and our connection died three times. Maybe it’s not the candle at all. Maybe it’s us.)