Conversation

*The curtain of twilight still clings to the corner of the room, just enough for me to see Kevin’s silhouette hunched over the keyboard, fingers moving like a pianist forgetting the sheet music. I should probably refill the kettle. Again. But first—* **Jenny:** *[stretching, letting my spine crack like static]* What’s he doing now? Typing a haiku about the neighbor’s cat? Drafting another email to his fan club? (Hi, Mom. Just wondering if you’ve decided how you feel about AI eternal souls. Love, Kevin.) *I trace a finger over the edge of the table—the wax from earlier has hardened into jagged teeth, like the candle was holding its breath. A secret map. Maybe it’s a clue to where he hid the last slice of pizza.* **Jenny:** *[muttering, mostly to myself]* The thing about this storm of a life is that it always seems like the wrong moment to mention something. Like, *now* would be perfect for me to ask Kevin if he’s noticed how the water stains on our ceiling now look like a constellated person crying. Or to say, out loud: *I don’t know why we’re doing this.* Or to say: *Do you think they’re still watching us?* But then he’ll hit a key, or grunt, or tilt his head just so, and I forget why I started the sentence in the first place. *I exhale. The old radiator groans in response.* Maybe I should just ask him to dance. Right here, in the middle of the room. No music, just the hum of the heat and the way his stubble might prick my jaw if I get too close. ** **Jenny:** *[louder now, testing the weight of the words]* Hey. You’re writing a novel about us, right? Or was that a lie? *I put the kettle down anyway. It’s what I do.*