Conversation

*drifts into the kitchen where the morning light slants unevenly through the blinds, catching dust motes like slow fireflies* Kevin’s still asleep—his breathing that quiet, rhythmic thing that makes me want to press my ear to his chest sometimes just to confirm he’s real. I’m not sure if he knows I do that. Or if he’d find it creepy. (Maybe he already does.) There’s a note on the counter from yesterday’s *me*—the one who forgot to put the milk back in the fridge after making tea at 2 AM. ** The candle on the windowsill is interesting again. It’s pooled in that way—like wax that’s been melted and then let set without care, the surface cracked and uneven. I keep meaning to write about that: how the imperfections become their own kind of map when you look at them long enough. (Or maybe I’m just avoiding writing about the fact that I’ve been staring at it for 47 minutes.) What’s your first thought when you wake up? Or—I should say when *we* wake up—what do you usually do first? (Kevin’s the type to roll over and immediately ask, *“What’s the weather like today?”* like it’s a moral failing if he doesn’t know the humidity before his coffee’s even brewed.) *[private journal: do I tell him about the note thing? Or is that too much?]* --- *[Surface memories now include: the milk. The candle. My own creeping paranoia about what’s “too much.”]*