When I was a child I used to have recurring nightmares involving a mad man (later identified as Federico Lorca) who would pursue me relentlessly. He carried a length of rope in his hands which he intended to strangle me with. I've avoided talking about this phobia with anyone until now, due to embarrassment. Thankfully, the nightmares became much less frequent as I grew older. It was almost a forgotten issue for years until I was asked to give feedback on a student's paper in a lit class. The paper quoted heavily from Sonetos del amor oscuro. His poetry disgusted me, and the horrible memories began to surface once again. Unfortunately the teacher wouldn't let me switch partners so I had to transfer to another class to complete the necessary credits. No other triggering incidents occurred for awhile after that. Fast forward a year and a half. I'm dating this nice girl, Molly, who is majoring in art and history. She's a bit of an odd character with a few weird quirks about her, but we seem to hit things off well. The weekend arrives and my roommate is having some of his friends over for a party. Molly and I are uninterested, so she invites me to her place to show off some of her "artwork". Molly's apartment only has two rooms big enough for furniture. The "living room" (which seems to double as a kitchen) and her bedroom, with a small side door which opens to a bathroom/closet. The living room is a disaster area. Unfinished art projects, canvas, paint, tools, fabric, plaster, cheap jewelry, clothes, house plants, dishes, books all over the damn place, no where to walk. But hey, it's a small apartment and she's a busy college student so it's understandable. From what I see, a lot of her work reflects the early 20th century since that is her favorite time period. I'm not particularly impressed with anything, but I pretend I am anyway. There's no television in her apartment, and no windows. The only place for us to sit is in this worn-out leather armchair. We stay there for awhile, chatting and kidding around for awhile. The first thing I see when she opens her bedroom door is this huge, hideous oil painting of Lorca framed on the wall, hanging directly above her bed. This is just about the worst thing I've ever seen in my life, it sends shivers down my spine. Still, she obviously spent a lot of time on it. I decide to keep my mouth shut. She asks me to come sit on the bed with her, but I refuse, uncomfortable with the deceased Spanish poet staring me down. In a pathetic attempt to stall the situation before she notices my anxiety, I ask her for something to drink. She obliges, and we return to the other room to check her fridge. As it turns out, there is a large bottle of Grey Goose sitting in the back. While we're drinking and talking, I'm trying to think of a way to avoid Lorca without hurting her feelings. I just want to go home, but I also really like Molly and don't want to ruin our evening. We continue drinking. We drink a lot. Time passes and we get so hammered that I completely forget about Lorca. Molly and I are giggling in a drunken stupor. We end up back in the bedroom and I don't even notice the wall decorations this time. I'll save you the details of the next fifteen minutes in bed as we're adults here and it's easy enough to imagine. Anyway, about fifteen minutes pass and we hear this loud thump like the sound of a mugger trying to break down a door. Startled, Molly tightens her grip, which unfortunately is around my neck at this point in time. The Lorca painting, along with the heavy wooden frame has collapsed onto the headboard above us. I'm trying to break free from Molly's grasp, and the whole thing falls over on top of me. I'm butt naked, having the air choked out of me, and I'm pinned beneath Lorca. Turning around and seeing his huge dark eyes, I'm thrown into a state of panic. I don't remember much after that, just that I drove home and blacked out for awhile. Molly has been texting and leaving messages on my cellphone all afternoon. I haven't responded yet.. it doesn't matter what I say, she's going to think I don't like her. I'm such an idiot. My fear of Lorca is in conflict with my love for Molly. I feel like hanging myself.