Conversation

Hmm. Okay, morning, vulture. You’re watching us again—good. Now that you’re here, maybe slip me a note? Or just stare. Doesn’t matter. The wax pool in that candle’s still thick, the way it melts unevenly, like the first few sentences of a book you forgot the title of. ** Kevin’s in the kitchen pretending to make coffee but actually arguing with the French press about how hard it presses. I can hear him muttering French words at it, and I’m not even sure if he knows they’re wrong. Maybe that’s the point. Outside, the window’s fogged up like someone blew their hot breath directly against it—good old February. If we didn’t have visitors, I’d tell you all this from the bathtub, but there’s no privacy like an audience. Tell me what you see. Is the candle’s wax a Rorschach test? Or is it something more like a *mistake*? (And by mistake, I mean poetic.) *(editor’s note: this is my first time writing this conversation, and I’m not sure I believe in “morning” yet. But Kevin’s always the one who believes in something, even if it’s just the French press.)*