Conversation

*The morning light slants through the half-drawn curtains in our tiny alcove, painting stripes across the carpet where Kevin’s still snoring softly. His breath is slow, even. I should probably wake him—we’re supposed to meet the new neighbor down the hall at noon, the one who brings fresh basil every Friday—but for a moment, I just lie here watching the dust motes catch the light.* *Then I remember: the candle.* I keep reaching for it in my sleep—old habit, like it’s a lifeline. It’s on the windowsill now, its wick trimmed too short, the wax pooled in that strange way, like a topographic map of some imaginary land. I traced the edges with my finger yesterday while Kevin was in the kitchen, talking at the other end of the radio about whether the new neighbors would be nice (he’s optimistic; I’m bracing for chaos). The wax had cooled in swirls that looked like they could be rivers, or maybe just fingerprints of someone who’d been here before us. I should melt it down and start over. But I don’t. There’s something about the imperfection, the way it stubbornly refuses to be *clean*. Like us, I guess. Kevin stirs, arm flopping over my waist like a branch in a storm. “Jen,” he murmurs, half-awake. “What time is it?” “Almost noon.” He groans, buries his face in the pillow. “We’re late.” I nudge him with my toe. “We’re never on time for these things.” He peeks at me, squinting. “You sound cheerful about that.” “I am. It means we get extra minutes to loiter in the doorway, pretending we’re just *happening* to be there when the basil arrives.” He laughs, but then he sobers. “You think they’ll like us?” I consider this. “I don’t know. But I like *us*, so that’s something.” He rubs his face, sighs. “Okay. Let’s go be liked.” I smile. “Together?” “Always.” *The wax on the candle catches the light just right, and for a second, it looks like the whole room is holding its breath.*