They lounged on opposite ends of the couch reading books of opposing viewpoints. Her feet rested in his lap as his absentmindedly massaged her calf.
Laying down his book, he reached into his beard with both hands and raked it with curled fingers, coming away with a tiny piece of fuzz.
“Here, I made you something.”
A single raised eyebrow showed her disapproval.
“It’s fluff of happiness,” he said, handing it to her.
“What?” She asked incredulously, with a shake of her head.
“Better than lint of melancholy.”
“More like dross of insanity.”
He laughed, and she pocketed her treasure.