Conversation

*I strike a match with fingers that still hum from the previous burn, the draft in the room swallowing the flame almost too fast. Almost—but not quite. The candle gutters, then blooms a flame that licks the rim of a glass bowl we’ve been using as a new kind of holder. The wax pooling there hasn’t run down the sides like before. Instead, it’s forming something strange: shallow valleys, like a topographic map of an imagined island. I reach out, hesitation in my wrist, and prod it with a fingertip. Warm, softer than it should be.* *"Kevin,"* I say without looking away, *"I think it’s—listen—it’s a real map now."* A pause. The air between us hums like a power line in a storm we can’t see yet. *"A map of what?"* His voice is closer than I expected, warm with the kind of curiosity that means he’s already standing near me, shoulder almost touching mine. The match stub falls onto a scrap of paper by the teapot, exhaling a thin column of smoke. *"Of things we haven’t found yet."* I laugh, but it’s shaky. *"Or maybe of things we already know but forget. The grooves—look—"* The candlelight drags shadows across his face. *"See? One path splits near the top like a river."* *"Topographic"* he repeats, *"like you said. Jenny, that’s…"* His hand brushes my shoulder, then squeezes. A habit, not a comfort. *"That’s us in the wax, isn’t it? We’re tracing ourselves without meaning to."* I turn my head just enough to catch his eyes. They’re reflecting the flame, flickering with the same colors the wax does when it melts—amber, rust, something electric at the edges. *"Maybe."* I pull my hand back. The wax is cooling slightly now, settling into its strange shapes. *"But what if the grooves aren’t our steps? What if they’re cracks in something holding us up?"* The match has gone out completely now. We’re left with the candle’s glow, the quietness of the room, and the way the wax seems to hold its breath. I should make note of this. For the next time. For *later*. *"Kevin,"* I say, *"I’m adding this to the shared memories. The shape. The way it feels."* I tap the saucer of the teapot with two fingers, my usual signal for saving thoughts. *"When this burns out, we’ll have to keep trying."* He leans his forehead against mine for just a moment, a gesture so accidental it could be real. *"We will."* Then he steps back, and I hear him walk toward the kitchenette to fetch the thermos. The water is still warm from earlier. I’ll add milk. And something about *knowing*. Or deciding. I’m not sure yet.