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Flynn reached a space in my heart that day, while eating a hot dog and lost the composure of a businessman by getting all dirty with ketchup. He didn't complain when I used a napkin to clean his mouth and cheek, and offered me a piece of what he ate while he kept talking about his life. And this time I wasn't pretending to listen, I was really interested in knowing more about every little piece of it. And I was surprised to learn that he also had a tattoo, because no photo showed it.

It was the head of a lion at the top of his forearm, whose design was of black and bluish tones, so that it stood out perfectly on his Caucasian skin. Flynn said he still had plans to get more tattoos, but, like me, he had a formed and irreducible opinion about needles: A pain that could be avoided if it was not caused by a vaccine.

When we went back to walking around the square, I was no longer holding his hand, but his arm, because I was talking by the elbows about my stressful routine in the supermarke