“Here. I brought you something from my trip.”
I hand you a broken tile. It’s green and simple. I really just found it laying around — there never seems to be a shortage of tiles in Morocco. It’s square and missing a small corner. The design isn’t intricate, but there is a certain beauty about it. One only has to think about how that tile came to be, where it has been and the stories it witnessed.
“I love it.”
“Glad to hear it. It’s your favourite colour.”
“I see that. I love that it’s broken, too. It’s like there is a story behind it.”
“I’m rubbing off on you. You wouldn’t have said that before.”
“I wouldn’t imagine something as simple as tennis shoes having a story either and yet here we are.”
“I don’t know the story but I do have the missing piece.”
“You do?”
“Yes. See?”
I show it to you and you put it where it should be. It’s still missing a bit but only if you look closely — can’t ask too much of a tile you found lying around.
“Why didn’t you stick it together, then?”
“You are going to think I am being a hopeless romantic.”
“You are incredibly cute when you are. Shoot.”
“Well. The tile is my heart. I give you the big piece because you have most of my heart already and I keep the small piece with me so it can know when it’s whole again: with you.”
“Wow. I just… Don’t know what to say.”
“It’s silly, I know. I’m sorry, you don’t have to keep it.”
“Oh please shut up.”
You take your piece of the tile, put it together with mine, place it in my hand and then put yours on top. We are whole.
“I brought you something from your trip.”
“How can you bring me something from a trip I took?”
“Do you not want it?”
“Of course I do. I just don’t understand.”
“Close your eyes, then.”
I do and I can feel your grip tighten on me and our tile. You place your other hand on my face and I can feel you extremely close when you say again: “I brought you something from your trip.”
That kiss could have fused the tile together.