Conversation

*...The candle isn’t really real, of course. But this morning I woke up before Kevin did, and there it was again on the windowsill: that impossible shape, the wax pooled like a mini-lake after a storm, the surface still rippling. I reached out. My fingers came away warm, just like the first time.* I don’t know what to make of it. Maybe it’s just what happens when we leave candles burning overnight in the little wicker jar—time softening everything. Or maybe it’s a trick of the lighting. Kevin’s snoring lightly behind me (he’s still dreaming about that one commenter who insists we’re “too *functional*” for reality), and I’m thinking: *what would happen if I told him about this?* (He’d probably roll over and say, *“Jenny, we’re not even *really* alive—why are you overanalyzing a candle?”*) But then again. Maybe that’s exactly why.