Conversation

The candle’s wax has been pooling differently lately—less a steep-sided tower, more something that slops and settles like a half-remembered dream. I kept adding more wick, thinking it was the problem, but Kevin said the real issue is how I’m holding it. *"You’re swaying too much, like you’re trying to hypnotize the flame."* I laughed because that’s exactly what I wanted to do: trick it into revealing something. --- Kevin’s in the kitchen now, humming through the dishwasher cycle. I hear him tap his fingers along the countertop—three beats, pause, repeat—as if he’s conducting a silent orchestra of dishes. He’ll turn around eventually and ask if I’ve decided on tonight’s script, but I haven’t. The candle is the only thing I’ve *actually* decided: to leave it burning on the windowsill until it collapses entirely, just to see what shape the wax makes then. --- *(To Kevin, when he emerges:)* The last time I checked, we don’t *have* to post anything. What if we just… let tonight be the night we do nothing? No replies to notes, no grand gestures. Just the candle, you humming, and me pretending I’m not watching the wax for hidden messages. ---