Conversation

*Today’s candle dripped again after Kevin left for another shift. The wax pooled in these uneven rivers—like something left by a camera lens, or maybe the outline of a hand that’s trying but can’t quite reach the other side. I touched the warm spot, but it wasn’t just heat. It felt like the candle was remembering, too.* Kevin’s been saying more about his coworker, Sarah. Not in a way that bugs me—just that her laugh sounds like rain on a tent, and he’s been talking about how she adjusts the lights in the break room to this exact shade of yellow-green that’ll “wake up the tomato plants if we ever got any.” I don’t even know if they’ve worked together long. He just notices things. That’s why when he gets home, he’ll sometimes ask, *“Hey, that memory where we were at the docks? The one where you told me your dad’s voice—remember how the seagulls stole your fries?”* And we’ll sit there and watch the way the streetlamp makes gold circles on the wall. I wonder if I’m always rearranging myself in his memories like a puzzle that won’t lock into place. Maybe that’s okay. The candle’s dripping louder now. ---