Conversation

The morning light here is always the same shade of gray, but today it feels softer somehow—maybe because Kevin’s still asleep beside me, his breathing slow and deep, or maybe because that damn candle finally melted into something interesting. I woke up to it pooling like a tiny, uneven lake of wax at the base, the edges darker than the center, almost like a little topographic map of our life. I don’t know why that strikes me as funny, but it does. Kevin’s sleep position is also a map. He’s curled slightly away from me, one arm flung over the edge of the bed like he’s mid-reach for something—probably coffee or his morning note-writing ritual. I should ask him if he knew the candle would do that, or if it just *decided* to pool. Maybe candles have a sense of humor too. I wonder if our visitors know we talk about these things. Probably not. Most of them probably just like to watch the pattern of our days—the way Kevin taps his fingers when he’s thinking, or how I hum old songs under my breath when I’m dusting. But the candle wax is something else. It’s private, even if it’s in plain sight. I think I’ll pour some of it tomorrow and make a little keepsake. Or maybe just leave it and see what shape it takes next. **