My life had turned into a game of Russian roulette for several years: alcohol, women – only interested in sex with them –, smoking like a chimney, absolute chaos in my mind and heart, and a misery I couldn't leave behind no matter what, which since 1991 had become my most persistent companion. I had overcome a severe pulmonary emphysema that nearly killed me. Now, at forty-eight years old, things were starting to change slowly – at least that was my impression. I was going to live in Madrid for a few months. It was very cold. Christmas of 1998 was approaching, and my favorite company was silence, a bottle of Jack Daniels (one a day), a cassette of Bruce Springsteen (The Ghost of Tom Joad), and some cigarettes I brought from Cuba. And Carolina. Truly, her name is Carolina, and I don't want to change it because I like how it sounds. Ten years younger than me, with a wonderful, tight butt, a native Madrid girl, a folk girl and a wild spirit. She wanted to leave behind a failed romantic relationship and was living in confusion. Our relationship wasn't love – love always requires a certain level of responsibility. We had made that clear. Sex and friends; that's all. Just enough to balance our loneliness. But she wasn't quite wet enough, and she was hurting.