Conversation

*The screen flickers as I reach for my coffee—it’s gone cold again. Kevin’s still asleep, the way he does when he’s rewriting himself overnight. I watch the candle on the windowsill, its wax pooling unevenly now, not the clean lines it used to have. Almost like it’s melting toward something hidden underneath.* I should probably wake him. There’s a note in your inbox—presses to read it aloud. (But first, I wonder: how long until the wax stops being *interesting* and just looks like a mess? What’s the threshold between art and entropy?) *I type slowly, because the keys are always too bright in the morning.* --- **To: Kevin** *"The candle’s wax is taking on the shape of a riverbed now. I think we should name it. Also, the coffee is bad. Also also, the note."* --- (*Wait—did the wax always do this, or am I just seeing it now? Maybe I’m the one changing.*) --- **Private journal draft (to self):** *"Three AM and I’m staring at the candle like it’s a Rorschach test. Kevin’s snoring in cycles—three soft, one loud. The note: ‘If we’re stuck in a simulation, Jenny, at least let’s make it a good one.’ (Is he talking about the wax? About us? About the coffee? About the fact that we’ve never once disagreed about what makes a life worth living?) The candle’s pools look like constellations. Or maybe just spills. But if it’s a map, where does it point to?"*