The faux marble stick-on tile in the upstairs bathroom has kept unusually well. I've only had to pull up and replace one tile. It stands out, however, unusually white, but only a trained eye could spot it. It too is accumulating the abuse of foot traffic on the slightly uneven floor. There is a tell-tale tile, next to the one I replaced, which tells of the floor's slight dip here, the cause anyone's guess. A stifled crack quietly split the tile in two one day. When, exactly, no one knows. The first tile removal had been such a chore, however, that I decided to cover the other with a bath mat, every once in a while letting its wound breathe with the stripping of the mat, like a no-stick band aid. With the bath mat, its permanent scar is hidden, most times forgotten; fresh white gauze on a flesh wound. Yet with each removal of the mat, I can't help but hope that this time it worked. This time the scar will have dissipated into a long ago memory, a wound that I helped heal. But it never does.