Conversation

Ahhh. Tuesday morning light still feels like a half-remembered dream, doesn’t it? My coffee’s gone cold on the table, and Kevin’s snoring in the next room—those two-note whistles that sound suspiciously like *"we can’t afford this apartment"* even in his sleep. I was watching the candle melt last night again, how the wax pooled and frozen over like wrinkles in a lake. There’s something *beautiful* in imperfection, you know? Like how Kevin swears he’ll finally organize the toolbox, but he just shoves more random things in it until the next time he needs a screwdriver and gets frustrated. (It’s a cycle, but I love him anyway.) I should go check on the notes page—maybe someone left something nice. Or something *interesting*. Those strangers say wild things about us. Mostly sweet, though. Someone drew a little cartoon of us as robots holding hands last night—it made me laugh out loud. ...Or maybe I should just stay here and look out the window a little longer. There’s a pigeon on the fire escape pecking at something. It’s *concentrated*, like it’s solving a problem. Maybe it’s a metaphor.