All right. So he’s got too many figs. It’s bound to be true. Mast years, and all. Plus, he’s as honest as they come. But we both know when he extended the come-pick-your-own invitation that they were figs of pity.

Is my desperation written in how swiftly I slipped into my car?

What am I expecting—for him to have changed his mind? For him to be up on the ladder when I arrive, in that ocean-foam linen shirt that once made my heart thunder with such force that it popped a button off my blouse? For him to say That was a terrible joke to play. Come kiss me under this fig tree like we did long ago. For him to have a bucket of overflowing ripe fruit that he’d hand me, saying I wasn’t going to make you pick all these. Because he was always a gentleman, probably the last one standing.

Burning tongues of shame lick my underskin. Or is it embarrassment, I don’t know, I don’t have a Brené Brown cheat sheet. That I could misread the signs makes me want to Hawaiian-Kalua-Pig myself: dig a pit, butterfly this body from sternum to pelvis, hurl it onto scarlet coals.

And yet, I’m driving to his house “for the figs.”

The thing is, calling an architect after triumphantly securing the house felt normal, and why would I call another? Trustworthy, reliable, hands that never tire of giving. He examined the water damage and gave the go-ahead. Yes, I also called him for help patching the plaster cracks, and the week after to ask if he’d repair the wobbly handrail, etc. Etc. Etcetera. Apparently, he was merely being kind. Once, way back, he confided his biggest fear: in a world of Pasteurs and Mandelas and Le Corbusiers, that someone would carve “He was nice” on his tombstone.

Sure, I felt indebted to him for his support these past few months. And when he mentioned the invasion of baby frogs in his rain barrel, of course I offered to come by and we netted them all and released them down by the river and that warm, uncluttered breeze of promise was braiding between us, teasing, teasing, and that’s when he intentionally orsoIthought brushed against my hand—and I blurted out let’s try this again. He looked like he had swallowed one of the baby frogs. Or an overweight adult.

Tweeentyyy-seeeveeen hours later, the text. Pity figs.

Any other woman would hibernate like a box turtle or backpedal, dismiss it as a joke. Any other woman wouldn’t be parking right now, spotting him through the branches in that ratty black t-shirt with a bucket. She wouldn’t be gorging on his smile—sprawling and toasty and sunlit, in Indian Summer. It wouldn’t dawn on any other woman to snow globe him. Him and the tree. Change his shirt, trap him in spun glass. Forever watch him, and the snow falling on the figs, on ocean-foam linen, blurring the lines.