I don’t remember my first kiss, but I remember my first fig. We were in the trendiest noodle joint in Manhattan that we could afford, to celebrate Crissy’s birthday. She had invited a few new friends into our tight fold, back when we marked our milestones with bigish groups and wildish nights. The venerable, vaulted restaurant was loud, overcrowded, our table oversized, but I watched, rapt, as this stranger presented my oldest friend with a small gift, a precious, fragile thing cradled in protective pink wrapping. With a gentle curiosity Crissy revealed a single fresh fig, plump, swirled gold and…

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