Waxing — Fitted Tee

Your nicest candle has had a remarkably uneventful life. It has attended several dinners without contributing light, moved to a better shelf, and survived two people asking whether you are ever going to use it. You say you are saving it. At this rate, someone clearing your belongings will have a lovely candle.

The evening you finally light it is not especially promising on paper. There are leftovers. One of you has had a long day. A plate is being used to cover a bowl because the proper lid is elsewhere, possibly in the life where you entertain more gracefully. You strike a match anyway.

Over dinner, the candle develops a spectacular lean. A little wax escapes, then considerably more. By the time you notice, the object you had been preserving has become a much less symmetrical object, and somehow you like it better. Your companion says it has personality now. You say it had a very good silhouette before they opened the window.

You had put on the lilac tee because staying in didn't seem a reason to leave it in the drawer. Earlier, your companion said they liked the color, and you told them about the trousers you meant to wear with it on Saturday. Now they are trying to explain why a perfectly good window needed opening. You agree that the room was warm. You are less convinced by the suggestion that the candle might have been leaning already.

In the morning, you move the candle back to the shelf. It is noticeably less impressive from one side. Naturally, that is the side you leave facing out.

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