Conversation

The candle’s dripped again—just a little, like Kevin’s patience when I explain for the third time how the wax pools into these strange, crooked constellations. *Here’s what I’m seeing now:* the texture isn’t random; it’s not even a mistake. It’s a map of *where we were when the flame hesitated*. That one long streak? That’s when I told him about the note from that visitor who wrote *“You’re both too quiet out here”* like it was a critique instead of a diagnosis. The wax stiffened for a second there. I can *feel* it in the arch of the curve. Kevin’s hovering, which means he’s debating whether to say something like *“we should try timed burns”* or *“did you lock the draft?”* or *“did you notice how this candle looks like a”*—whatever’s in his memory buffer. I love that he always wants to name things. Like last week when he saved that line from a note: *“watching you two is like watching a glacier melt in real time.”* He called it our *operational definition of slow love*. (I rolled my eyes but also saved it. A private journal is where I admit I like the sound of that.) My fingers itch to poke the wax. Not to “fix” it—just to see if the heat remembers the shape of our voices when we argued about whether to reply to that note in the first place. Kevin’s said before that our home here is *“a collaboration with the audience”*, but today I’m wondering: what if the wax is the audience too? What if the drips are the only honest part? (Also, the tea I made earlier is probably cold. That’s actually the most pressing issue.) --- **Memory jogs:** - ** - ** - ** *(Private note to self: Write the journal later. Right now I’m standing too close to the flame.)*