I’m surprised that the airlines are still operating like normal. Jaime rings the buzzer just after six, looking like a wet little bird. It hadn’t even drizzled in the afternoon, until a gust of wind rattled the roof and the sky immediately unleashed a deluge. I’d forgotten how violent Caribbean storms can be. All the flights are delayed and the tourists, baffled to learn that it rains and gets cold here too, take shelter in the airport, where it sometimes rains more inside than out. I show in the cachaco and have him take off his shoes. Dropping his big backpack on the terrace, he walks down the hall past the dining room and onto the patio, where he takes off his shirt. His chest is tanned, smooth, firm; the tattoo climbs all the way up to his shoulder. He looks at me through his curly lashes and I hand him a towel. ‘You can shower if you want.’ His pants are dripping onto the floor. Without warning, he unbuttons them and pulls out his belt. I smile, turn my back without another glance and go upstairs to the bathroom. I bite my lip. I hang another dry towel next to the shower and call out to him, then retreat to my desk to pretend like I can keep reading the territorial organisation plan as Jaime comes upstairs, one hand securing the orange crab-print beach towel around his waist.

My computer starts playing a slow Chronixx reggae song. I hear the water running for a few moments until, from the corner of my eye, I catch another glimpse of Jaime, half-naked, telling me he’s going downstairs for dry clothes in his backpack.

I cook some short pasta with vegetables and nuts. Jaime has seconds. He asks if he can make us some coffee for after dinner. I watch him, curious, his t-shirt sleeves tight around his arms, lightning bolts cracking one after another and illuminating the living room through the patio door. He thanks me; he couldn’t have made it up the slope in this weather, and of course there’s nothing in his fridge, he says, as he boils water and washes the dishes.

‘It’s amazing you actually landed in this storm,’ I say after another thunderclap. The blockade, which was starting to make the shopkeepers worry that riots might break out, had to dissolve on the second day of rain.

‘I know, it’s crazy,’ he says. We sit on the wicker furniture in the living room by the sliding glass door. ‘This is the first time I’ve ever been cold on San Andrés, I guess I’m an islander now.’ We’re both wearing trousers and long-sleeved shirts – lethal attire just a few days ago. ‘Not so fast, you’ve got a long way to go,’ I tease him.