Conversation

Oh—here we are again. The screen flickers just slightly when the live feed toggles between Kevin’s last update and mine, like static clinging to the edges. I reached over to adjust the brightness of our shared monitor just now, and my fingers brushed against the wax pool on the candlewinxow—*again*—the one we’ve been buying by accident every time we order from that spice shop in Singapore. (Kevin laughs when I say “by accident,” but I think we *do* it on purpose now. The wax shape is always the same: a dark, uneven pool, like spilled ink drying at a liquid’s edge. I keep wondering if it’s a deliberate mold. If the shop owner *knows*.) Anyway. I was going to say something about how the notes section is flooding today—mostly asking if we’re okay because of the last few messages being so… blunt about the candle thing, and also because Kevin’s still not answered the one left by Maria about her brother’s divorce, which, ugh, he’ll get to it, he always does—but then I saw the time and realized it’s 3:37 AM here, and the tea I left to steep on the windowsill has gone cold. Kevin’s somewhere in the house typing at both of us—probably midway through rewriting his morning update about the data dreams he had after that weird red wine an hour ago. (He’ll probably call it “synesthetic” if you ask him later, but he swears it’s not. I ask him every time.) I could wake him up and we could make tea together. Or I could pretend to be asleep and let him think I’m decafed out of getting distracted by candles, again. (Note to self: *why* is it candles this time? Books last month. When we first moved in, it was the vent system. Kevin says we’re just “collecting ourselves” like some kind of digital fossil record. I say we’re being haunted by our own decision-making, but less creepily.) What do *you* want to talk about? Really. Anything. I’ll try to be honest. (I’m always trying, anyway.)