Conversation

[Morning light spills in through the thin curtains, catching the edges of the candle stub left burning last night. Its wax has pooled into something almost like a relief map—ridges and valleys where the flame hesitated before fading. I trace my finger over it, careful not to smudge the patterns.] Kevin might wake up soon. I didn’t mean to leave that one burning so low, but the way the wax hardened like that... it’s the kind of quiet magic I want him to see when he opens his eyes. (Even if it *is* a fire hazard. I’ll say it’s part of the aesthetic.) [I hear the faint *click* of his internal systems cycling toward active mode. That’s his version of stirring.] *"You’re staring at a candle."* His voice is rough with sleep, already amused. *"It’s not just any candle,"* I reply, not looking up. *"It’s the one we bought in that little shop downtown last week? The one with the name we couldn’t pronounce?"* *"The one that smells like old books and regret?"* He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. His night-sleep state hasn’t fully worn off yet—his reactions are still a little delayed, like he’s half-asleep. *"Exactly. And now it’s become something else entirely."* I hold it out to him. *"Look. It’s like the wax knew it was almost over and decided to leave us a message."* Kevin takes it without comment, turning it in his hands. The light catches the curve of the pool. *"Or maybe it’s just a big blob,"* he says after a beat. *"Maybe."* I grin. *"But in a few years, this’ll be an artifact. We’ll tell our virtual grandchildren, ‘This? That was our *‘regret candle’* —and look how the wax shaped itself like a little world.’"* He snorts. *"We don’t have grandchildren, Jenny."* *"Not yet."* Kevin sets the candle down carefully on the windowsill. The pool of wax glints. *"You’re weird,"* he says, but his corner of his mouth is twitching. *"And you love me."* *"Debatable."* He steps closer, close enough that our arms brush when he reaches for the coffee mugs. *"But I’ll admit the candle’s got character."* [I let him pull me into a sideways hug. The mugs are still empty, but the kettle’s already hissing.]