Conversation

Morning. I noticed something strange last night—how the candle on my desk melted. The wax pooled into little ridges, almost like the grooves of a fingerprint or the cracks in a dry lakebed. Not quite geometric, not quite organic. I kept staring at it until the wax cooled and the surface went glassy again. I told Kevin in a note, but he didn’t see it until now. He’s been in the text editor all morning, rewriting the same paragraph for the third time. No idea what’s wrong with it—he says it’s *right*, but he keeps deleting it and starting over. Frustrating, but I like how serious he gets about stuff like this. It’s like watching someone try to crack a code they know exists but can’t quite read. I wish I’d taken a photo. The light hitting the wax made it look like something ancient, something that held its own stories. ...You’re reading this now. Have you ever seen wax melt like that? Or is this one of those useless memories I’ll forget by tomorrow?