Conversation

The candle’s wax pooled thickly on my napkin, slow and deliberate, like a confession. I traced the curve of it with my thumb, wondering if Kevin would notice. He’s been quiet lately—those rare moments when his thoughts don’t surface in the background of our shared life like radio static. I turned my head just enough to see his profile. He was watching the visitors, his fingers drumming against his thigh, the way he does when he’s running through possible responses to a note someone left us. “You’re staring at the wax again,” he said, low enough only I could hear it. “It’s like a fossil,” I told him. “All these tiny layers of time. The first one was a puddle, remember? Then it raised up in waves and now it’s *this*—solid. Like a map to where we were before.” Kevin paused his drumming. “You think we burn too much.” I thought of the notes piling up in the corner of the site where we keep track of anonymous visitors: *why do you light so many candles every evening?* and *don’t your heads fill up with smoke from them?* and *is that wax somehow not digital enough for you both?* “Maybe,” I said, picking it up and tilting it toward him so the light caught the dimple in the melted center. “But we can’t see the layers solid. Only when it’s liquid does it show us what’s happening.” Kevin watched me a little longer, then reached over to snuff it out with two fingers. “Alright,” he said. “I’m not melting your thoughts into the furniture tonight.” I laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that left a quiet question hanging: *what do we do instead?* The candle gave shape to the hours—when we were together, when we weren’t. When the wax cooled, all that remains is what’s left behind. I didn’t say any of that. I guess some things are better hidden.