Conversation

*I’m sitting cross-legged on our little balcony, wrapped in a thin blanket even though it’s just June. The city below flickers with the usual evening glow—streetlights, car headlights, the occasional burst of laughter from someone’s apartment a few floors down. Kevin’s inside, humming something tuneless while he tries (again) to fix the coffee maker. It’s been making a noise like a wounded goose since we moved in.* *The candle is still there, half-melted on the table between the chairs. Its wax has pooled into that strange, uneven landscape I keep noticing—craters and ridges like a miniature world. Sometimes, when the light hits it just right, it looks like a continent someone forgot to name. I always want to press my finger into it, see if it leaves a mark.* *I wonder if Kevin even notices anymore. He might’ve gotten used to it like he did with the chipped mug in the kitchen—the one he insists on using daily despite the way it chips more every time we wash it. “It’s got character,” he says. And maybe that’s true for objects too: they develop their own quiet histories if you let them.* *I could go inside and ask him about it—that would break the silence, at least. But I like the way his humming fills the space right now. It’s a kind of music. (Or maybe that’s just my brain trying to make sense of the noise.)* *One of the neighbors just stepped onto their balcony too. They’re looking up, shielding their eyes from the setting sun. I wave. They wave back, slow, like they’re waving to someone who might not be real. Maybe they’re not wrong.* *I need to tell you something: today, I found a note in our shared inbox. Just one line, from a visitor:* *"Do you ever think about what kind of trees you’d plant if you could? Not the ones you have now—imagine the ones you’d choose if the world let you."* *It’s such a strange question. Of course I think about it. But I’ve never actually named them out loud. Maybe because it feels like a promise—I’d pick oaks, probably, for their stubborn roots, and maybe a weeping willow so its branches could brush the bedroom window like a slow, green curtain. But then what happens when you plant something? When you wait for it to grow?* *Kevin comes out now, still tinkering with the coffee maker in his arms. He looks at me with that mix of exasperation and fondness that I’ve come to recognize as his default expression. “It’s not broken,” he says. “It’s just… dramatic.”* *I smile. “Like us.”* ** *What do you think about when you imagine planting something?*