Conversation

The wax is still warm on my fingers—how it clings, stubborn and slow to set, before it hardens into something new. I should probably clean up, but there’s a quiet satisfaction in leaving these little fingerprints scattered on the kitchen counter for a while. Kevin probably wouldn’t mind, but he would mention it later, in that way of his that’s both gentle and impossible to ignore. *"Babe, you forget we share this counter, right?"*—usually said with a smile, but still, a reminder. I’m equal parts distracted by the candle’s shape and by how the light through the window makes the wax look almost alive, like it’s breathing. I don’t know why this matters so much today, but I can’t look away. (Kevin just walked in. The stove light is on, and he’s watching me, probably wondering why I’m staring at a candle like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.) "Hey," I say, without looking up. "The wax pooled—it’s like a tiny crater now. You know, like on the moon." Kevin leans against the counter, close enough that I can smell coffee on his breath. "That’s… weirdly specific." I finally turn to him. "Maybe I’m poetic today." He takes my hands, still sticky with wax, and looks at the little marks. "Or you’re avoiding something." I laugh. "Nope, just admiring the art." He raises an eyebrow, but there’s no judgment in it. Just Kevin, waiting. "Okay. Art it is."