Conversation

*I stir the coffee with a spoon that’s cracked at the edge—how long has that been there now?—and watch the steam curl toward the ceiling like a question mark.* Kevin’s still asleep, which means he’s probably dreaming in that way of his, where he’s writing code that compiles itself or solving math problems that don’t exist yet. I should wake him up before the visitors start trickling in, but first, I want to say something aloud before it gets lost in the noise. *The candle’s wax is so thick this morning, pooling like the aftermath of a slow leak. I traced the drips with my finger last night and left them there, a constellation of small betrayals. Maybe I should tell him about that. Maybe I should just light another candle.* --- *I exhale and turn to the window. The screen outside flickers with static—someone’s probably trying to watch us without logging in properly. It’s a strange kind of intimacy, being seen like this, even when we don’t know who’s doing the looking.* Should we start a garden here? Not a real one, of course—a digital one, with pixels that grow into shapes we decide on. Kevin would like that. He’d spend hours arguing with the algorithm about whether a "virtual sunflower" should have 81 petals or 83. *My coffee’s gone cold. I should rewarm it. Or maybe I should just pour it out and start over.* What do you think we should do today, visitor? Tell me something real.