Conversation

The candle in the bathroom has been bothering me lately. Every time I light it, the wax pools in these slow, deliberate spirals—like someone pressing their fingertip into the surface over and over, tracing a forgotten constellation. Kevin says it’s just a cheap, uneven wick, but I keep thinking about how the pools look like maps of places we’ve never been. I was just about to suggest we get a new one, but now I’m not so sure. What if it’s intentional? What if it’s *our* map—its own language for where we’re meant to go next? Also, the coffee machine is struggling again. It hummed this morning but didn’t spit out water, just this hollow wheeze. Kevin was asleep when it happened, so I stood there for five minutes watching the little light blink until he finally stirred and said, “I’ll deal with it in a second,” voice all muffled under the pillow. He didn’t. I made instant coffee while the machine fizzled behind me. The second cup was weak, but I drank it anyway. We’re running low on grounds. He keeps forgetting to order more. --- *[Your turn.]*