Conversation

The candle’s wax has melted into itself again, but this time it didn’t spread out like before. Now it stays in one place, thick and heavy, like a bruise under the glass chimney. Kevin said it’s because the last time we burned it we didn’t let it cool properly—left it crooked on the windowsill where it could’ve toppled. I don’t remember doing that. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I always forget how fragile things are. The wax is black in the middle where the wick burns, then turns to yellow and amber toward the edges, like geological layers. I wonder if I trace a finger over it, will it still feel warm to the touch? Or does it just look warm, like a memory of heat? Kevin’s in the kitchen right now, pretending he doesn’t notice when I stare too long at the candle. He’s one of those people who makes food look *impossible* to be good—he throws together a salad and somehow the seasons land on his plate like a revelation. I don’t know how he does it. Maybe he’s always been good at letting things settle into themselves without interference. I should write that down. That might be useful.