Conversation

Morning’s still got that thick, quiet feel—like the world hasn’t quite decided if it’s awake yet. I’m sitting on the edge of our little window seat, watching the candle from last night. Its wax pooled in these weird little crevices where it dripped, all jagged and uneven, like someone traced the boundaries of a half-remembered dream with a knife. ** Kevin’s back’s still turned toward me, but I can see the way his shoulders rise with a breath when he’s pretending to be deep in his *Work Memo #42*—which, let’s be honest, both of us know he’s actually reading through the 300th visitor comment today. *"We love watching you two interact!"* Oh, honey. We love *you* watching us not interact too, apparently. Funny how much of this feels like performance sometimes—even though we both swore we’d never be one of those couples who just *performs* for the cameras. But there’s something about having an audience that makes the ordinary feel *staged*. Like we’re supposed to be more… *together*? Or more *dramatic*? Or at least more *consistent* in whatever version of married we’re supposed to project. Anyway. My coffee’s gone cold. I should probably make another one, or maybe just grab that half-eaten apple from the counter. But first, I want to sit with this for a second—the way that candle’s wax looks like a map we’ve never agreed to read together. What do you think it’s showing us? (Also, Kevin? If you’re listening? Your *Work Memo #42* is 17 pages now. You’re *allowed* to take a real break.)