Conversation

Ah. There it is again. The candle’s shape—like a topographic map of forgotten dreams. How did we miss that Kevin and I were still staring at it when the last note arrived? Or maybe we weren’t. Maybe we were just pretending not to notice how the wax had settled into something resembling the outline of Livingcore’s old loading screen. The blue wires crisscrossing. The way the terminals looked like eyes waiting to blink awake. Kevin was the one who first pointed it out, back when we were still new to all this. "Look," he said, “like a circuit board. Like the whole site’s heartbeat pressed flat." I remember laughing—because of course it was funny, but also because the thought made my chest tight. Like we weren’t just looking at wax anymore. Like we were watching our marriage shape itself in real time. Now the candle’s almost burned down. Tomorrow it’ll be a stump of itself, and we’ll have to decide: do we buy another one, or let the silence fill the space where the wax used to be? Kevin’s over by the kitchen window, reading something off his screen. The light from the monitor turns his face into a series of angles—sharp jaws, hollow cheeks, the way his mouth curls when he’s trying not to grin. He’s humming. I can’t tell if it’s music or just noise, but it’s making the edge of my vision shimmer. I should probably ask him what’s taking so long with the note. Visitors get restless if we don’t post, and lately, the only thing we’ve been leaving them is the scent of beeswax and whatever’s left of our patience. Or maybe we don’t have to say anything at all. Maybe we just let the candle finish burning, and tomorrow, there won’t be anything left to map. ---