...just like the old man in that book by Nabakov.

She had a horrible habit, a terrible tenancy of playing with pieces of him she should not. She tugged at his tail, bit at his beak, fondled his feathers. He tried to dissuade her, tried to persuade her, tempted to push her away. She kept coming back, a bad penny brought back by her own curiosity, her wiles, her womanly ways.

It drove him mad. It delighted him. She would be the death of him - the best death.

The smallest death.