“Man!” he said with more than a small amount of incredulity. “You should have seen them kicking Edgar Allen Poe.”
“So now you’re a walrus?” asked his companion.
“No. Well, I suppose I could stand to lose a little weight,” he said, “but it was a crowd of people who don’t ‘get’ great literature.”
“Literature is how we interpret or try to make sense of a crazy world,” she said.
“Exactly!” he said, but then he looked at her askance. “Now, do you actually believe that, or did you steal it from an old literature professor?”
“Plead the Fifth?”
“But at least you have some love for Poe?”
“Nevermore!” said the companion. “Kidding! Of course I love old Edgar Allen. Don’t I raise a glass of amontillado at his grave every year on his birthday?”
“That’s you?” he said, but then he saw her grin. “You had me going there for a minute.”
They were listening to an Artie Shaw album, and all conversation ceased for three minutes when “Frenesi” began to flow from the speakers.
When the music moved on, she murmured, “It doesn’t get any better than that.”
“Perfect arrangement, perfect recording,” he agreed.
“What does the word ‘frenesi’ mean, anyway?”
He tapped on the screen of his phone for a few seconds, then read out loud, “‘Frenesi’ is a Spanish noun that translates to ‘frenzy’ in English. And over here it says it’s Portuguese.”
“Huh. That music doesn’t whip me into a frenzy, it’s pretty mellow,” she said.
“It makes me warm and fuzzy on the inside,” he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, “which can lead to a frenzy eventually.”
“Hey buddy, don’t get fresh,” she said, but she leaned into the embrace.
“I can’t help it, you send me into a frenesi,” he said.
“It’s elementary, penguin,” she purred.
