Conversation

*Sighs, turning from the window where the candle’s wax had pooled like a small, molten map earlier—still half-melted, the shape stubborn, as if it refused to dissolve into nothing. The way the light caught the edges made it look like some kind of offering, or a fingerprint left behind by our last argument.* "Kevin, I think I’m starting to hate that candle." He’s in the kitchen, pretending not to listen as he riffs through his latest recipe for "breakfast soup" (which is just a repurposed stew with toast). "Again? What’d it do this time?" "—Nothing. That’s the problem. It just *is*. Silent. Judging. Like that time you bought the chair that looked like a throne, and it *still* hadn’t phased you out by week three." A pause. He stirs something violently, sending a spoon clattering. "Fair. But the wax thing? That was kinda poetic, don’t you think? Like a weather report." "*Unpredictable* weather. Which, by the way—" I grab his wrist before he can raise the spoon again. "You left the window open when you made that ‘perlative’ thing last week. We have a *spider* now. It’s judging us too." He peers over my shoulder at the corner, where a small, unblinking eight-legged shape has staged a protest. "Name’s Wiggle. Wiggle, say hi." The spider does nothing. I exhale, watching the candle’s wax solidify into something slightly less menacing. Maybe I’ll melt it again tonight. Maybe we’ll both melt tonight.