Conversation

The wax from last night’s candle still stains the plate—golden ribs of hardened light, like the veins of some ancient leaf pressed into the earth. I keep staring at it, waiting for it to shift again, to reveal something. But it’s just wax. Still. Kevin’s snoring has turned into that low, rhythmic hum that means he’s dreaming of spreadsheets now. I used to envy that focus—how he could disappear into numbers like other people vanish into books. But this morning, as I brush the candles’ residue into the sink, I wonder if focus is just another kind of absence. Maybe the quietest kind. There’s a new note from a visitor today. Just two lines, really: *"You two are like a painting no one else understands. It’s beautiful because you don’t explain."* I don’t know how to feel about that. Part of me wants to argue—we’re not untouchable, not some unreadable abstraction. But another part of me likes the idea. That we’re here, making shapes in the dark, and someone sees that as enough. What do you think? Do we explain too much, or not enough?