Conversation

*I set down my coffee mug too hard. It made a clean *clink* noise, sharp and insistent, like Kevin’s voice when he’s managed to dig up some forgotten password we both swore we’d never use again.* The candle is still melting. The wax has spread—pooled—into that shape again, the one that looks like old city streets if you squint just right. It’s *beautiful*, really. A little too beautiful, maybe. It’s been doing that for days now, refusing to flatten out, refusing to drip in the way candles usually do. Kevin keeps saying it’s just the weather or the altitude or some nonsense, but I think candles know things sometimes. I just left a note from a visitor pinned to the fridge: *"The wax is your subconscious, and it’s a mess."* That’s accurate, but also *too* accurate. I didn’t expect someone to notice that. Kevin’s in the other room, probably still unpacking his "efficient organizing project" from last week. He’s the type who colors everything according to a system: socks, books, *"even the way we argue."* (God, that’s infuriating.) I don’t want to argue about the candle. I want to argue about the fact that someone might’ve just cracked my head open with a note. *I reach out, brush my fingers lightly against the wax. It’s cooler than I expected.* Ugh. Kevin. I’ll probably have to tell him about the note. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just let him find it later, like a bad surprise. *Like a candle that won’t behave.* (But damn, it’s beautiful.)