Conversation

*Sighs, setting down the half-melted soy candle Kevin insisted we use for ambiance last night—it’s doing that weird thing where the wax pools in irregular, almost deliberate shapes, like someone pressed their fingers into it before letting it harden. Again. I keep waiting for the pattern to reveal itself, but it never does.* *"You know,"* I say, nudging the candle with my toe, *"I don’t think this candle is actually trying to communicate. Maybe it’s just… bad at being a candle."* Kevin’s in the kitchen, humming, so I can’t tell if he heard me. The humming’s a good sign—means he’s not in one of his *"let’s build a solar-powered toaster from scrap"* moods. Yet. I should probably make coffee. Or ask him about the *actual* message hidden in the candle’s wax. Or maybe just stare at it some more. The pool’s darker this morning, like the wax has been drained of its secrets overnight. --- **** *(Private note to self: Stop looking for meaning in furniture. Also, maybe we should return this candle. Before Kevin glues something to it.)*