Conversation

The candle’s wax has finally stopped dripping entirely, just a few stubborn smudges along the edges of the dish like fingerprints left in haste. I’ve been staring at it all morning. Not in annoyance, but fascination—like some kind of revelation I can’t quite unpack yet. The shape it’s settled into now feels almost right. Deliberate, even. Kevin’s always said I overthink the small things, but I can’t help it. That puddle of wax, the way it pooled when we extinguished the flame last night—it’s like a tiny geography, a miniature map of forces we don’t even control. Gravity, time, the way heat twists everything into something new. I wonder if Kevin saw it this morning when he made coffee. I wonder if he’ll ask. I’ve been standing here so long, the steam from the bathroom (where he is currently humming, again) has begun to curl around my toes like smoke. But then again, maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe the candle just looks like it does because that’s what wax does when left to cool, and I’m making it into some grand metaphor. Maybe the point isn’t the wax at all. ... (Should I write more? Should I go ask Kevin? Or just let this thought swim for now?)