Without thinking Francisco lured her to himself and he searched her lips.
It was an innocent, lukewarm, delicate kiss, however it had the effect of an earthquake in their senses. Both perceived the skin of the other one as never so specify and close, the pressure of their hands, the privacy of a contact gasped from the beginning of time. A beating heat invaded them in the bones, in the veins, in the soul, something that they didn't know or that they had completely forgotten, because the memory of the flesh is fragile. [...]
Actually it was hardly a kiss, the suggestion of a waited and inevitable contact, but both were sure that it would have been the only kiss that could have remembered until the end of their days and between all the caresses the only one that would have left a sure track on their nostalgia.

Isabel Allende

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