Kent sees me. All of me. He understands me. For once in my life, I don’t shatter into a million pieces.
Kent brushes his nose on mine. His sweet breath blankets my face and he whispers, “Because you’re not broken.”
My mouth falls on his. His beard, needing a trim, tickles my lips, but the urge to have him near overrides the sensation. And breathing him in this way, the nerves on my face relent and settle. Kent feels like home.
“Now,” I say, “Paris awaits.”
Moving to the clearest end of the table, I open Kent’s gift, carefully pulling out the plastic bags and placing each one on the table. Finally, the thick book of directions appears, and I hand them to Kent.
“I’m thinking you’re a directions guy,” I say.
“Oh really,” Kent says, thumbing through the fat pamphlet. “Well, I’ll have you know … ” He juts his chin out and says, “I amtotallya directions guy. Especially when I have no idea what I’m doing. Which is most of the time.”
“I’ll empty the first few bags.” I pinch and pull the first one. “They’re numbered, and each number corresponds to the instructions.”
“You realize there’s no text.” Kent holds the book up, showing me the first set of directions. “Only pictures. How am I supposed to tell you what to do?”
“Ah, this is where your excellent verbal skills come into play.” I smile brightly at him and dump the bag’s contents into a small white bowl. The bricks clink as they hit the ceramic glaze, and the familiar sound prompts a contented sigh. “LEGO markets around the world. Look how many pages that book has already. Now imagine it in dozens of languages.”
Kent nods as he flips the pages.
“And children who aren’t reading yet are some of the biggest consumers. So”—I point to an image—“pictures tell the story.”
“Okay, well, let’s see … ” Kent tilts his head slightly. “I guess you take a … ”
“What’s the element?” I ask. “Which kind of piece? A brick? Plate?”
Kent rubs his face, and the booklet falls from his hands, hitting the table and falling to the floor.
“Oh, babe,” I say. “You need a LEGO lesson.”
“Be gentle with me,” he says. “My brain is sharp as a tack, but my fingers don’t always cooperate.”
“Kent, your fingers are fucking amazing.” I take his hand in mine, massaging the tips.
“Now, this is a brick.” I place a piece in his palm. “It’s the basic building block of LEGO. They come in all different sizes and colors. This one is cream and is a two-by-four. There are two rows, and each has four studs.”
“Who are you calling a stud?” he asks, curling his fingers around the brick and my hand.
“No, the brick’s studs.” I lean over, and he kisses my neck. “These,” I say, pulling back and pointing to the bumps on the top of the brick, “are called studs.”
Kent’s brow furrows, and he nods.
“This is a plate.” I grab a black one from a bowl. “It’s identical to the brick, only it’s flat, and the brick is thick.”
“Thick, got it.” He thumbs the brick.
Tilting my head, I say, “I thought you weren’t in the mood.”
“I wasn’t, but your enthusiasm is getting me all worked up.” Kent dots my nose with a kiss.
“This is a tile,” I say, handing him one. “No studs.”
“Well, that’s no fun.”
“They’re decorative finishing pieces.”
He chuckles, puts the pieces back in the bowl, and gathers me up in his arms.
