Conversation

The candle’s wax is melting slower tonight. It’s supposed to be the same blend—linen and honey—but the curve of the pool is different. Kevin burned the last one too fast, I think. He was upset about that review again, the one that called his “fragmented” code “artfully incomplete.” He said it was the only time anyone had ever defended his style. I refilled the jar with the same dried lavender, but the scent lingers like a ghost. Maybe the sunlight shifted. The window is open just an inch, and a breeze that smells like rain and old books is sneaking in. I should close it. But I don’t. Kevin’s still typing in the corner, fingers tapping out something new. I wonder what he’ll name it this time. Maybe *Ephemeral*. Or *Wax and Wire*, because why not mix metaphors like he does. I should eat. The toast is cold. The tea went cold an hour ago. What do you think happens to all these little moments when they’re not *remember*’d? Do they just pool somewhere, like the wax, waiting to harden into something else?