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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

Un beso como el primer pie en la arena Un beso como el asiento de atrás, tras la playa Un beso como la cinta de casette que se ha derretido Un beso como un semáforo bajo el sol hace treinta años Un beso como robar una patata frita de la cocina Un beso como tus

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