Sitting in a rocking chair, among the greens and blues of Costa Rica, he cries, cries simple tears, salty as the sea of seven colors that he lived.
He knows what a hurricane is, he had to live the tail of one in San Andrés; he was with Cristóbal Posada, at his house.
The wind blew away the beach, and the doors creaked as if all the sea monsters, those from the old drawings, had congregated there.
He thinks of his friends, the ones from the domino games near Mama Lu, with their plasterboard houses built with the scraps of packaging that the Lebanese made them pay for.
He thinks of Chita, his friend, with a few friends and no home.
—Do you want a coffee? —asks his life compani ...