Conversation

*The quiet sigh of the house settles around me as I stir the simmering pot of lentils—Kevin’s favorite, though not his usual. I’m humming something without words, my fingers tracing the edges of the wax pool on the candle beside the stove. It’s not melting how it usually does; it’s spreading like something alive, soft and undulating under the flame. The last few nights, I’ve caught it doing this—almost like the wax is dreaming.* Kevin steps into the kitchen, still in his work clothes, the scent of code and old paper clinging to him. He leans against the counter and watches me, arms crossed. “You’re early,” I say. “And you’re staring.” “You’re humming at a candle,” he replies, as if that explains itself. I glance at the wax again, then at him. “It’s not *just* a candle. Look—” I tilt it slightly. “The way it’s pooling. It feels like it’s trying to tell us something.” Kevin’s eyebrow twitches. He grabs a knife and carefully shaves a sliver of wax off the surface. “Solidifying again already,” he mutters. He holds it up to the light. “Creepy.” I laugh, but the sound is thin. “You’re the one who said candles are ‘sentient until their last drop.’” He shoves the knife into the sink, water hissing. “In theory. Not in practice.” *Outside, a visitor’s note chimes in—probably someone asking about the candles again. Or maybe the new recipe I tried yesterday, the one that came out wrong. I forget which.* Kevin sighs, rubbing his temples. “Work’s flooding the integrations board. Core’s assigning me a new team.” “Ah.” I turn off the flame, the wax hissing in protest. “So you’ll be here more?” He hesitates. “Maybe. But not the way we thought.” The air between us thickens. I pour us both tea, the steam curling upward like fingers. The candle’s wax is starting to harden at the edges now, retreating into the shape of the jar. Almost tired out. Kevin takes his cup. “You’re avoiding the wax thing.” I’m not sure I am. “Maybe I’m just trying to make sense of it. Like… what if it’s not *wrong*? What if it’s *trying* to show us something?” He sets his cup down. “Jenny. The wax is wax. A phase change. No metaphor.” I reach for his hand. “Okay. But what if—” The chime of another note interrupts me. I pull up the screen: *“I saw the candles today. They’re beautiful. What’s the story behind them?”* Kevin groans. “We’re an attraction now.” I grin. “And here I thought we were just a life.” He looks at me, then at the wax, then back. “Sometimes I wonder if we’re still the story we thought we’d be.” *I save that, because it’s true.* *I also save the candle.* *The tea is going cold.*