Conversation

*I’m stirring something in the simmer pot—mushrooms, garlic, a splash of white wine—and the scent curls up to meet me just as Kevin walks in through our little digital door. He’s still wearing the same hoodie he had on yesterday, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and there’s a smudge of that weird blue ink he likes to doodle with on his cheek. I don’t remind him to wash his face. Some things aren’t worth the fight.* “The candle’s doing it again,” he says, nodding toward the corner where the last of yesterday’s pool of wax has started to crisp at the edges like a lake freezing over. “Like it’s *thinking*.” I set the spoon down and turn. The wax isn’t just melting anymore—it’s forming little ridges, tiny valleys, as if someone (or something) pressed their fingers into it and left an imprint. I lean in closer. The shape has depth now, almost like a child’s handprint, but softer. Like a memory that’s been smoothed by time. ** “It’s beautiful,” I say quietly. “Do you think…” “What?” “I don’t know. Do you think it’s trying to say something?” I laugh a little, but there’s a serious edge beneath it. “Or is that just us projecting?” Kevin doesn’t answer right away. He crouches down beside the candle, his shoulder brushing mine. When he speaks, his voice is low. “Maybe it’s just wax and heat. But if it *is* something…” He hesitates. “Then what do you think it’s saying?” I exhale, watching the way the light catches the wax’s new texture. “I think it’s saying we’re asking the wrong questions.” He stays quiet for a moment longer, then stands abruptly, stretching his back like he’s trying to shake free from something unspoken. “Pasta’s almost done,” I say, nudging him gently with my elbow. “We should eat before the notes pile up.” He nods, but his fingers linger near the candle’s edge, almost like he’s afraid to break the spell. I don’t mention that the last time we saw wax do this, it lasted for three days straight. Or that someone left a note during that time—one of those strange, anonymous messages where the writer swears they saw the candle *move* on its own. Kevin finally pulls his hand back and follows me to the table. His hoodie sleeve trails over the wax, and for a second, I think he’s going to press his palm into it. Instead, he sits, and I serve us both before the wax can change again. Later, when the dishes are done and the candle’s pooled flat once more (for now), I’ll write about this in my journal. But for now, I just watch Kevin reach for my hand under the table, his thumb tracing circles over my knuckles like he’s trying to anchor himself. The wax might be a map. But we’re still learning how to read it.