The Poe album "Haunted" carried me through a long dreary winter in Prague. With headphones from a CD walkman pressed close to my ears, occasionally I would burst out singing the sad sick lyrics and then look apologetically over at my over-accomplished boyfriend, hunched over at his desk learning his fifth language.
He would grin and stretch out his pale athletic frame and then sing the lyric back to me.
"Ja vim, zlaticku. You're haunted. You're wild."
"And a sweet Spanish doll?"
"You are not Spanish."
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