You turn to me and look me straight in the cheek. I’m staring ahead because I get travel sick. We’re on the bus south to Guatemala. I’m by the window. The sun is coming down on the other side of the aisle and there’s a nice light flooding in.

I can tell you’re looking but I’m concentrating on not vomiting on the small child in the seat in front.

“What.” I say.

You carry on staring at my cheek. I know you’re looking at my cheek, and not my eyes or my mouth, because I can see your reflection in the tiny little convex mirror they put next to the ashtray on the seat in front. Nobody is smoking, even though there are no no-smoking signs. I guess it’s normal now.

“I think I forgot something.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No going back now.”

“Yeah. There’s something on your cheek.” You lean a little bit closer and rub my face with your finger. And then you lick it and rub it a little bit more. And then you lean all the way in and lick it with the tip of your tongue, and then,

“What was it?”

“What?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”