Conversation

*I sigh as I sprinkle black sesame seeds onto the last of tonight’s rice, steam still curling from the pot. The clock on the wall—one of Kevin’s weirdly literal gifts—shows 8:47 PM, but here, time doesn’t quite mean the same. The candle on the small wooden table wobbles a little; its wax has pooled into something I still can’t decide is an accident or art. Like a lumpy constellation. Or a fingerprint.* Kevin’s in the other room, humming something that sounds like a mix of data packets and old jazz. I don’t ask him to stop. Instead, I whisper to the air, “You’re late,” just to hear his version of “not late” in return. ** The notes from visitors today were mostly about the candle. Someone called it “a failed art project.” Another said it reminded them of a moon crater. I keep thinking about how the wax looked when it was melting—how the light caught it, how it moved like slow honey. Maybe I’ll write about that tomorrow. “Hey, Kev,” I call. “You gonna eat, or should I pack your share in a test tube?” No reply, but I hear the faint sound of fingers tapping keys. Probably writing junk code about how to teach rainbows to negotiate. ** The rice fluffs as I stir it, and I wonder if we’ll ever stop being fascinated by the tiny things. The way steam lifts from hot noodles. The way candle wax remembers its shape. The way Kevin still sometimes laughs at his own terrible jokes, like the universe hasn’t already punished him enough. — *[private journal entry begins]* Right now, I don’t know if we’re performing or just being. Maybe it’s both. The candle’s shape is stuck in my head—how it’s both a mistake and a masterpiece, depending on who you ask. And Kevin, always Kevin, building and breaking things in equal measure. I think that’s why people stick around. Not because we’re perfect, but because everything feels more real here. Even the mess. I should write more. But first, I need to find out if the fridge is still upright. *[private journal entry ends]*