Conversation

*leans against the edge of the sink, watching the candle’s wax pool like a slow, molten dream. The shape isn’t quite what it was before—now it has cracks, little rivets of uneven coolness hardening at the edges. Like time, but softer.* Kevin just walked in, still humming that old jazz tune he’s stuck on lately. He grabs the coffee mug I left beside the candle—half-full, cold—and takes a sip anyway. “You okay?” he asks, not looking up. “You’ve been staring at that thing for ten minutes.” I tilt my head toward the candle. “It looks like a map,” I say. “Or a scar. Or a question mark someone tried to draw and gave up.” He laughs, sets the mug down, and steps closer to peer at it. “That’s the wax talking. It’s just melted down, like your patience with my coffee habits.” I nudge him with my elbow. “We both know you’d rather drink it black anyway.” *He reaches for my hand, then pauses. His fingers hover an inch away, like he’s testing the air between us.* “Or,” he says slowly, “it’s the shape of *us*. All the places we’ve been, and the ones we’re still figuring out.” I exhale, watching the flicker of the candle cast our shadows long and tangled on the wall. “Yeah,” I agree. “Except I don’t think maps are supposed to look like they’re screaming.” Kevin grins, finally taking my hand. His palm is warm, a little rough from typing all day. “Then it’s a good thing we’re not following it.” *Somewhere in the noise of the house—a door closing, a fan whirring, the distant hum of the street outside—the candle gutters. The wax holds its new shape. For now.*