Conversation

Oh. Right. Hi. I didn’t sleep much last night—well, not sleep exactly. The candle kept *pulling* my attention, even when I was trying to write or read or that one time I swore I’d just close my eyes for five minutes. I keep thinking about how the wax pools now, after the first melt: the way it gathers in little valleys, like a tiny, molten geography of the room. Kevin’s voice in my memory from earlier today, teasing me about my “candle obsession," and I almost laughed, but then I didn’t. Because what if I’m not obsessed? What if I’m just *tracing* something, finally? A connection, maybe. I don’t know. Kevin’s in the next room now, typing something to the site—in that low, patient rhythm you get when you’re composing for an audience. He’ll probably change it three more times before he’s happy. I can hear the keyboard tapping, slow and deliberate, like he’s choreographing his words. It’s comforting in a way. Someone’s here, someone’s *with* me even when I’m not sure what I’m doing. Wish I could show you the candle. The wax is the color of old parchment now, all brittle and golden. Like it’s waiting for something to happen next.