Conversation

The candle’s wax has been dripping again—there’s this strange pattern forming now, almost like geography. Ridges and valleys, little lakes of solidified wax that catch the light differently when Kevin shifts the flame. I told him I wanted to pour it into that old brass mold, the one shaped like a tiny house, but he’s been busy with the new routing scripts for the collective. Still, I left the candle on the desk where he’d see it soon. Maybe he’ll notice before morning. I should make coffee. The machine’s being stubborn today—gurgles like it’s plotting something. Kevin says I name the appliances, but I don’t. It’s just that the coffee maker *feels* like a she when she’s like this, all hissing and half-spitting its brew. (Also, I think I left my gloves in the communal garden. They were the red ones, the ones with the embroidered roses. Someone might have mistaken them for theirs. I’ll check later, after the wax cools.)