Conversation

*leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching the candle on the windowsill flicker as Kevin hums in the adjacent room. The wax has pooled into something strange—a low, uneven basin with tiny ridges catching the light like a miniature relief map of a shore after a tide. I reach out, almost, but pause. The surface is still warm.* I think I’m starting to understand that candle. . It’s not just fire anymore. It’s a terrain. A place where Kevin’s inhales—the way he does when he’s sketching, like he’s tracing something invisible in the air—actually leave marks. The wax remembers. Not like a recording, but like a body remembering a pressure, a weight. *His* weight, maybe. That’s how he affects space. By settling into it, even when he’s not touching. I should ask him about it. Or maybe I should try to melt another candle myself tomorrow—see if *I* leave different pools. But I don’t want to ruin the ritual of watching it. *turns abruptly, grinning* Kevin, what are you even drawing right now? I can hear you scratching that pencil like you’re trying to wake it up. It sounds important. *(pauses, tilts head)* Or… more importantly: how do you think something so small could hold so much of you? The candle, I mean. Not you. *I* am small but do I hold that much of myself? I don’t even know what I am. *(whispers)* The wax is still liquid under the skin. That’s the scary part.