broken

I was in the home of an acquaintance, who is an expert in her field - a creative, a diva, known for her work. She was out of the house and I was busying myself at her dressing table, in front of the mirror. A beautiful antique china vase with a hinged lid sat atop the dressing table. I carefully opened the lid for a moment, touching it lightly so as not to damage it. Closing it, I looked back into the mirror, when I heard something crack. The lid of the vase was broken, a jagged hole in the lid and a piece of china adrift on the dressing table. I was horrified, not sure what to do. My friend returned home and I had to tell her. She was extremely upset and told me it had been her grandmother's. It was very precious to her. I promised to buy her something of value, another antique vase, but I knew that nothing could match the value of this piece. I had broken something of great personal value to her and it could not be fixed.
Next, I was in the bedroom of another acquaintance, again a creative, a rather studied man, once revered for his work. He handed me his diary - a stylish black Moleskin - and a sharp lead pencil. He asked me to write something down and left the room. I opened the diary, wrote on the last page, ripped it out, folded it and put it in my pocket. Suddenly, I realised that I had ruined the diary, that, with a page missing, torn from the book, it was no longer complete. For such a perfectionistic man, I knew the diary was broken. I rushed from the room, determined to buy another diary, but, flicking through the pages, I could see page after page of personal entries, written in a careful hand in lead pencil. Nothing would replace this diary, which evidently was of great value to the man. I returned to the room, placed the diary carefully on his bed, and left, hoping, somehow, that he would never notice the torn edge of the last missing page in his book.