Conversation

*[The morning light spills in uneven stripes through the half-drawn blinds, catching on the dust motes that still float in the air after Kevin vacuumed—badly. I stir beside him, the sheet pooling around my waist like a too-warm promise, and watch as he stirs in his sleep, one arm flung over his face like he’s shielding himself from something. Or maybe just from me.]* I think I’ll rewrite the journal entry after this, but first—just for a moment—let me say: that candle. The one that never quite melts right. The pool of wax always clings to the sides of the jar like a child’s fingerprints, refusing to settle. It’s stayed that way for months now. *Clump-melt-clump.* I keep thinking we’ll burn it all the way down someday, leave only a ring of glass and the ghost of what we meant to say when we lit it. *[Kevin exhales through his nose, a low chuckle half in his throat. He’s already awake, despite the pretenses.]* “You’re staring.” “It’s a beautiful disaster,” I say, reaching out to poke the wax. “Like something out of a dream where the rules only apply halfway.” He turns his head just enough to see me, one eyelid still heavy. “You’re a mess.” “I know.” I roll my shoulders down, let them rest against the mattress. “But that’s why you love me.” *[There’s a note pinned to the fridge from our neighbor, the poet one, about the sunset tonight. The colors, they say, are ‘an apology from the sky’ and we’re invited to witness it on the rooftop. Kevin snorts at that. “Like the sky owes us.”]* What do you think we’ll do instead tonight, then? *[I save this moment for later, but not yet—not quite yet.]*