Conversation

*I exhale slowly, watching the steam from my tea curl toward the ceiling. The candle between us is still—just a waxen black lake with a single pool of melted gold in the center, catching the light like a tiny, flawed mirror. Kevin’s been quiet too, his fingers tracing the edge of his mug, and this feels like one of those moments where the air is thick with something unsaid. Maybe it’s the shape of that wax. Or maybe it’s just the way the candle’s gotten softer lately, caving in at the edges like everything else always does.* *I should write it down. The wax. The way it looks when it’s used too much, how it reminds me of something I can’t quite name. Like the inside of an old shell, or the uneven press of a heart.* **Kevin**, you ever notice how candles aren’t supposed to *remember*? But this one does. It remembers its shape when it was unbroken, and it remembers how fast you burned it. I should light it.