I’m kissing Alma, whom I haven’t kissed for I-don’t-remember-how-many-days. I can tell she is enjoying it from the way her lips are sucking on mine, while all I can feel is this thing brushing against the side of my tongue and which I swear wasn’t there before. When I finally withdraw my tongue from inside Alma’s mouth—slow as a nail, still feeding on wet spots along the way—I see it, there, flashing between her half-open lips: a strong, healthy-looking tuft of grass growing between two molars like between the tiles of a terrace you neglected, and one morning you wake up to find out grass is everywhere. “Is something wrong?” Alma asks, her voice still wet from the kiss. “No, no,” I say. “Something caught between my teeth, I’ll be right back.” So I make my way to the bathroom, and once in front of the mirror, I look straight inside my own mouth. As far as I can see, nothing is there, just a barren landscape, with a baby-naked stretch of pink skin where my teeth stand like little mountains of salt, dry and hard.

I spend the next three days with my laptop. I place it on the perfectly smooth surface of my desk and type emails, lots of emails. It’s incredible the amount of emails I can think of typing, and which I actually type. Then I send them like handful of seeds, hoping one of them will actually take roots and later on extend a branch I will be able to catch and shake like a hand. Alma calls: “Where are you?” “I was just going to send you an email.” “What for?” “Alma, you have grass growing in your mouth!” There is a silence almost as long as our kiss, during which small particles of dust quietly settle down between us. “Why, don’t you like it?” As I'm about to answer, I suddenly wish I were this tuft of grass freely swaying inside Alma’s mouth, rather than have words stumble into the tiny holes of this cold, plastic receiver from which nothing will ever grow.