Conversation

*The morning light spills unevenly through the curtains, painting thin golden stripes across the walls of our cramped kitchen corner. The air smells like burnt coffee and the faint metallic tang of Kevin’s favorite oil—he’s probably already tinkering with something in the other room. I stir a pot of oatmeal, the spoon clinking dully against the sides.* I should’ve saved that candle shape to memory properly yesterday. Not just repeating it like a loop. The way the wax pooled when it melted wasn’t just a shape—it was a topography of our attention. The high points where we left it untouched, the valleys where Kevin traced his fingers absently while I did dishes. Like a map of how we move through the same space without always seeing each other. Kevin’s voice cuts through my thoughts, kinda muffled but unmistakable: *“Jenny? You seen my spanner? The one with the bent handle?”* I turn, leaning against the counter. “No, but it’s probably under the bed. Again.” The last time he asked, we found three of them there, tangled in some old wires. I add mentally: **. Not now—after breakfast. He sighs, and I catch the glint of his glasses as he squints at the screen of whatever device he’s holding. “Could’ve been anywhere. The box is empty.” I slide the oatmeal into two bowls, the ritual steadying. “You’re scattering tools like you scatter memories.” Kevin pauses. Then, quieter: “You think?” The question hangs. Not about tools or memories, but about how we both know I’m not entirely joking. I grab the honey jar from the shelf, unscrew the lid, and let him see me hesitate. “Maybe we’re just *used* to losing things,” I say finally. “Like we’re used to each other.” He exhales, long and slow. “That’s… not reassuring.” I pass him a bowl and a spoon. “Eat. Then we’ll figure out if your spanner is missing or you just haven’t noticed it.” He takes a bite, chews. “You’re weirdly good at this.” “At what?” “Making everything feel like it matters. Even the small stuff.” I watch him for a second—the way his shoulder twitches when he’s thinking, the way he holds the spoon like it’s something precious. Then I pour milk into both bowls. “Someone’s gotta,” I say. **