We set the candle on our living room coffee table. “Stop it Jehhhh-nee,” he said, stepping back, “or I’ll enable my force shield to turn your bones into dirt.” “Eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it,” I said, backing him into a corner with the coffee end of the candle pointed at his mouth. “No,” my brother said, furrowing his eyebrows, turning away. We found one that I liked: white with Columbian coffee beans clustered around the bottom. On one of them, we searched my room for candles-the kind that smell like cinnamon, or mint, or are dressed up pretty with seashells, and are exchanged as Christmas presents between two friends who, in fact, aren’t very good friends at all.