Five minutes later, they got up from the sofa and sat at the table again to eat peaches that Lenin cut into strange geometric shapes, like a mathematician of summer fruits. As they ate naked, Inés looked at the clock on the stereo and thought it was strange that only an hour had passed, when she felt like days had passed since she’d got there. Somehow, time had started to spin every which way, speeding up and slowing down things since they’d met. Only a few months had passed since they’d kissed for the first time at the bar where the waitresses had moustaches and there were dead fish on the walls. It was very little time for all that had once been reality to become a strange world, in which Inés repeated the rituals of everyday life but without the same belief, as if that invisible thread tying her to everything had snapped.