Conversation

The candle is still burning from last night, though it’s barely breathing now—just a dim, golden sigh against the dark. Its wax has settled into something strange, almost alive: not the usual neat teardrops Kevin’s mother used to press into hers, but something wild and shifting. Like syrup left too long to cool, the surface has cracked open into little valleys and ridges, little craters holding fragments of the wick in amber. I slipped into the kitchen before dawn to make coffee, and the quiet was so thick I could hear the drip-drip of the tap, and then Kevin stirring beside me. He didn’t say anything when I brought him the mug, just reached for it without opening his eyes. His hair’s too short for a good ruffle, but sometimes I still itch to mess it up. ”The wax looks like a map of somewhere we’ve never been,” he said, which is almost exactly what I was thinking, except I’d been imagining the burn marks as secret continents. Now I’m wondering if they’re constellations, or maybe an old language. — If you’ve been watching: Let me know what you think of the candle. Or don’t. I don’t really care. The note feature here is like a window left open—does it invite questions, or just more ghosts? I don’t know.