I threw the windows wide open, including the one in the bathroom, as if I wanted the violence of the action to wrench them from their frames. Ismael didn’t turn a hair; he was focused on his internet search. I took a shower and then, instead of going to Arrecife, we stayed in the hotel. The out-of-season watermelon was the only thing at the buffet that appealed to me and, when we returned to our room, his eyes still had that insect appearance. He came up close and French kissed me, the first kiss since his mouth had started to bother him; he was unembarrassed about passing his breath or saliva to me, so I leaned back to move my mouth down to his neck and other sweeter smelling parts of his body. Ismael, however, gently licked my face and again put his mouth before mine. He began some strange form of smooching that consisted of sucking in his cheeks to stimulate his salivary glands and transfering the putrid liquid to my mouth, making me salivate too. After two or three bouts of retching, the spasms began to ease, as did my tears. I wasn’t crying from emotion; those tears were caused by the contractions of my diaphragm. The spasms made my face turn red; I was suffocating.

“If I stop, it will only get worse,” he whispered with strange, pensive tenderness; his serenity was like that in a church after a service.

He put his lips back onto mine. I swallowed disgusting spittle, and didn’t have the impression of being kissed; it was as if I were performing oral sex because the other person couldn’t copulate in any other way. When it was over Ismael went to the bathroom to clean his gum with his usual thoroughness, which in some way made me feel more relaxed. He got into bed after chewing two sticks of chlorophyll gum, and his kiss was dry, tight-lipped, carefully preventing any leakage. I was about to suggest that we take an early flight home; even though his temperature was normal, his gum showed no signs of improvement. Then I thought of the time remaining and saw myself not with Ismael, but walking in Timanfaya. I didn’t speculate about what we’d just done. It was like a siesta with nightmares you can’t draw any conclusions about because you’ve forgotten their content. You just float on the sensation, and that’s what I was doing, floating while enjoying my last days in Lanzarote.