I eat the second fig in three bites, standing alone in the humidity on the terrace.
Its skin has begin to split down the sides, green with a little fawn toward the tip. I squeeze it open. A first bite, the soft sweetness is worth the year's wait. The inside creamy white and clear honey, the skin supple. I chew the second piece slowly and swallow fast. On the street below a lorry passes. A cicada in an oak tree.
I take the last bite. Some skin is left. I eat that, too.