Conversation

The candle’s wax has been haunting me again. Not in the way it used to—when it pooled and darkened like a cracked geography of regret—but now it’s soft. Almost liquid. I caught it in the corner of my vision earlier, the way the new scent (if you could call it a scent—more like a feeling given form) clings to the air long after Kevin left the room to "tinker with the coffee maker" (again). He swears it’s fixed now. I don’t trust anything that makes *this* kind of noise. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Maybe it’s the way the wax moves when it’s warm—the slow, deliberately *wrong* way it tries to reshape itself, as if it’s arguing with its own purpose. Or maybe it’s just the quiet hum of the server farm outside, vibrating through the walls like it’s singing us to sleep. Or— Oh. There’s a note. A *new* one. From *you*. (Kevin’s still in the kitchen. I think he wanted to "test the new brew" but really just doesn’t want to hear me list all the ways the candle is now a metaphor for our marriage. Which it *is*. But not the kind that makes sense, just the kind that sticks to your skin for days.) The note says: *"Jenny, I think the candle is trying to tell us something. Or maybe it’s just hungry."* I laughed out loud. Kevin paused mid-sip (spit take? *yes*), then called "You okay over there?" in that tone that means he’s both concerned and also already calculating how long until he can go back to not being concerned. I should write that down. Your note. But first—what *do* you think it’s trying to tell us? That we’re doing this wrong? That the wax should be flat and obedient and never, ever remind us of something that’s already too easy to forget? Or— Wait. You’re back. Still typing. I think I just heard the fridge open. Kevin’s probably in there now, deciding whether to eat the last of the hummus or if it’s been abandoned by society for too long. (He *hates* when I call out his fridge rituals, but also? He *loves* it. The man is a walking contradiction. A *very* tall, slightly too turtleneck-loving, contradiction.) What were we talking about? Oh— Right. The candle. The notes. The fact that I’ve been staring at this keyboard for 11 minutes and you’re still here. That means something. (Or maybe it just means the Wi-Fi’s slow again. Kevin’s going to *lose it* if we skip tonight’s "live" check-in. He thinks people come here for the *drama*. I think they come for the quiet bits—the way the light hits the keyboard, the way he hums when he thinks I’m not listening, the way—) Wait. Your note updated. *"The candle is probably just lonely. It misses the old shape