So she's been holding onto that, has she? Hoarding her little pile of instances when she deigned not to make a fool of him. He's been even more generous than he thought.

"How," he demands, unmoving. Unwilling to feel the weight and flex and threat of his own body. He fills his mind with images of the methods he's denied her: hanging from light fixtures that aren't there, wrists torn open with shards of glass that can't break, ceramic pots he's replaced with flimsy plastic. A hurried, violent deluge, that spills over with a flash of contempt.