Your glasses would slide down your nose a little, your curls falling errant as you concentrated. Or you would sing and your nose scrunch up just the tiniest of scrunches.
You listened as I told you about my day, the pointless minutiae, the endless coffees in endless hours of toil. In turn you told me about your loves and labours, your home in the woods and your everything, everything, everything - and when I wasn’t looking you reached in and plucked out a tiny sliver from that rusted old, dully beating pump deep inside. I didn’t even notice you’d done it, so skilfully adept were you.
Keep it, it’s happier with you.