He'd pick at the skin edging his fingernails while reading, bite his nails off concentrating on Sudoku. When he thought I wasn't looking, he'd pick his nose. His annoying habits drove me mad.
I imagined my defence in court: skin, fingernails, green flecks on the sofa. Surely a case for divorce, your honour?
I'd give anything to hear him picking his skin now that he's dead and I'm all alone. Now, I am the one worrying the skin around my fingernails, twiddling my hair until it comes away at the roots.
I miss him. I loved him, warts and all.