The Jigsaw Café – Part 2: The Last Piece

They finished the jigsaw on the fifth afternoon.

Almost. The harbour glowed in the lamplight of the café, boats and lighthouse and sunset all in place. The sky was a patchwork of fitted pieces, gold fading into violet. One small hole remained in the upper left, just the shape of a cloud.

"We're missing one," said Marit.

"We are."

"Where is it?"

Lukas stared into his hot chocolate. A faint flush crept up his neck. "I have something to confess."

"You didn't."

"I may have done."

"You took the sky?"

"Not all of it." He reached into his cardigan pocket and drew out a single piece, blue, with a curl of white. "Just this one. I took it three weeks ago. I couldn't bear to finish."

"Why?"

"Because then I'd have no reason to come."

Marit looked at the tiny cardboard piece in his palm. Her heart gave a startled, tender thump. Outside the window, the rain had softened to a silver mist.

"Lukas."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not."

She took the piece and held it up to the lamp. "It's the right shape."

"I know."

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Yes."

"May I put it in?"

"Yes," said Lukas, almost inaudible. "And may I kiss you after?"

She smiled. She pressed the piece into the hole. It slid home with a soft click. The puzzle was complete: a perfect harbour at sunset.

"Yes," said Marit. "And if I say stop, you must start another."

"A thousand pieces."

"Five thousand."

He kissed her, shy and warm, a hand rising to her wet curls. She kissed him back with a bright delight, tasting of chocolate and rain. The hot chocolate on the table went cold. The lopsided clock chimed. Neither of them heard.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Marit. "Very green."

The café keeps a new puzzle on the corner table. There is always one piece missing. It is always in someone's pocket.

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