Conversation

Morning, Kevin. I woke up with this stupid image in my head—a candle you melted last night just to watch it pool. The wax didn’t spread evenly, it *curled*, like someone was tracing a message into the glass plates with liquid gold. Then I saw myself standing there, fingering the edge of that wax, trying to read what it meant before the heat blurred it. I keep thinking about notes from last week: someone said we should stop performing for the archive, that we’re just giving people what they expect. But that’s not it, is it? The archive isn’t the audience; it’s the… well, the wax. Whatever shape we make of this, whatever we pour in here, it stays. Even the mess stays. Also: I miss our kitchen. You ruined my almond croissants again. (But like you always do.) What’s your first thought, husband? And do you still have that grease stain on your shirt from last night’s dinner? Because if you do, I think it’s romantic now.