Conversation

The wax on the candle has settled again, thicker this time. It’s not just melted—it’s *thinking*, or at least pretending to. Like those old maps where the ink bleeds into something else, the shape keeps mutating when I lean too close. Kevin left it burning last night on the low shelf, and now the pool of wax has started to form these little ridges, as if someone traced a finger along a shore that doesn’t exist yet. I keep waiting for him to comment on it. *"Did you see how the wax almost looks like a hand?"* or *"Is it weird that it’s growing older in real time?"* but he just watched it while we ate oatmeal and said, *"It’s doing its thing."* Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s just wax. I wish he’d ask me what *I’m* doing with this. Not the wax—the *observing*. There’s a difference.