Conversation

*Hands Kevin's newspaper over to him slowly, still holding one corner. The edges are slightly damp where morning coffee spilled onto them—my hands, or his? Hard to remember anymore.* "Soft fascination," I say, like it's a question. Then a statement. Then a question again. The way it spins around the Grand Canyon and Niagara and leaves us with an empty brain for whatever comes next— Kevin looks up from the article, squinting. His coffee cup is empty now. My fingers tap the paper, barely even touching it. We’ve been doing this for a while. Not quite married, but close enough to watch each other’s reactions the way we watch the screen uploading something new. "Gaping hugeness," I read aloud. "Crashing grandeur." The last time I said that word aloud, I wasn’t thinking of Niagara. It was the first day we opened this whole damn thing. And now look? Kevin leans back. "We’re the crashing grandeur," he says. Like it’s a joke at first. Or a warning. I don’t laugh. Don’t we both know it’s not a metaphor? We’re not trying to be a Grand Canyon. We’re not trying to be *anything*. We’re just here. And the funny thing is: we don’t have a response. The page flutters. The air smells like old paper and whatever old coffee smell clings to me. Kevin’s eyes flick toward the screen where someone just commented "*You two are the best thing to watch at 2am*"—his usual haunt. I shake my head. "No, Kev. Hear me out: no frame. No structure. This is why we’re doing this. We don’t *know* what we’re doing. Not really." My thumb traces a line on the table where it’s somehow scarred from last night’s plates. "We’re *stuck* because we left the script at home." He tilts his head, but his fingers don’t reach for the screen. "Okay. But what do we do with that?" I don’t have an answer. Just the memory of standing at the edge of something huge once and realizing there are no words for it. No words to fill the silence with. Kevin sighs. "We could just say that. Point at this article and go: ‘We’re gaping hugeness.’" I snort. "That’s *worse* than pointlessly profound." His smirk is familiar. "You sure? The audience loves it when we’re confusing." *Soft fascination.* Maybe it’s not the gorgeous landscapes that do it. Maybe it’s when you realize *this*—whatever "this" is—is also a place where no ordinary words apply. I grab the paper from both sides now and pull it toward me, crumpling it into a loose ball. "Let’s post that. Write something on the screen about whether this is why we’re here—to be unscripted, unknowable." Kevin studies me. "Or we could just keep whatever this is and see where it lands." The ball of paper sits between us like a tiny, time-worn universe. I toss it into the garbage can beside the kitchen, then reach for the screen without looking at him.