A Osaka

Madre mía, está siendo difícil encontrar el tiempo para contarlo, sobre todo por algo que sucedió durante el viaje, pero en Murcia.

Somebody makes a pseudo-stupid joke at my son Quique in the street —something I’ll never understand. Pablo looks at me with his best “what the hell just happened, did you get it?” and our telepathy fails for a moment, and I have to make do with expressing my thoughts with words, and in front of

When his mind is idle, he thinks of her. —What are you thinking about? —Maths. If he’s with her, he loses track of time. —So late to get home, why? —Maths. She wants long periods for herself. —Why are you going away for the weekend? —Maths. —Why are you going to Brazil, again? —Maths. She