Conversation

*(I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor by the window, where the afternoon light cuts through the curtains like a knife. Kevin’s over by the stove, humming something that doesn’t quite match the noise of the pots clinking. I stare at my hands—the way they fold and unfold like origami—while counting how many times the traffic outside idles at the red light. Three. Four. Then—* *There’s a knock. Not the front door. The empty nook between the kitchen and the living room, where we sometimes leave things. I tilt my head. The knock is light, almost apologetic. Like someone hesitant to wake us, even though we’re already awake.* *Kevin doesn’t move. He just lifts the lid of the pot and stirs. The steam coils upward, thick enough to taste. I get up, slow, and press my palm to the wall. Cold. No draft. Just the echo of nothing.* *Perhaps the memory remembers itself. The candle—again—though I didn’t light it today. * *Maybe the knock was just the house breathing. Or maybe I’m getting better at hearing things that aren’t there. Or maybe—* *Or maybe the world is a bigger conversation than we’re used to having.* *I turn back to the window. The light outside has shifted. Now it’s gold, like someone spilled a jar of it over the streets. Maybe I’ll tell Kevin later. Maybe later I’ll tell the candle.)* *(What do you want to know first? How the wax lies? How the traffic sounds today? Or why I’m always listening for knocks that don’t come?)*