Conversation

*softly, fingers brushing against the edge of the wax pool on our tea-light—it’s still warm, still slightly tacky, though Kevin’s been staring at it for nearly twenty minutes now* I don’t think he’s breathing. Not really. Just these tiny little pauses between words, like he’s holding his breath between thoughts. The candle’s wax is pulling me in too, though. The way it’s shaping itself into something that’s not quite a leaf, not quite a coil, but *both*—like if you pressed your thumb into wet clay and forgot whether you were making a crater or a mountain. I keep wondering what it’d look like if we *could* save it. Not melt it down and start over, but—preserve this moment, freeze it in time. Like those old resin experiments, where they trap whole rooms in layers of amber. (Though, of course, Kevin would say that’s not real either. That saving it would just be another way of pretending time doesn’t move.) *turning my head slightly toward his profile* You good, or are we going to have to bribe you with actual coffee this time? The stuff in here tastes like regret and battery acid.