There was a time when Nayeon took insatiable delight in him, stuffing him with sour and sugared relishes, tumbling him, in a random moment of her restless activity, upon his computer chair, and pinioning him while she grabbed his chin sharply with her forefinger and thumb. Sometimes, frantic with some swift tangle of her nerves, she would attack him viciously, hating him for his dark apathetic face, his full scalloped underlip, his deep absorption in a dream. She sought in the world ceaseless entertainment for her restless biting vitality: it infuriated her to see other people seek absorption within themselves-- she hated him at times when, her own wires strumming, she saw his dark face brooding over a book or on some vision. She would tear the book from his hands, and stab him with her cruel savage tongue. She would pout out her lip, goggle her face about stupidly on a drooping neck, assume an expression of dopey idiocy, and pour out on him the horrible torrent of her venom. Sometimes her sweltering and inchoate fury was so great that she tried to push him on the floor and fling the nearest item on him. He did not mind the physical assault so much as he did the poisonous hatred of her tongue, insanely clever in fashioning the most wounding barbs. In these certain situations, he went frantic with horror, jerked unexpectedly from her good graces into hell, he bellowed madly, saw his bountiful angel change in a moment to a snake-haired fury, lost all his sublime faith in love and goodness. He wished desperately that his constricted heart would burst, that something in him would break, that somehow he might escape the stifling prison house of her life.