I show the photo to my friend Jaime and, instantly, he says:

“I praise the whores who put themselves at the crossroads selling their figs, going through heats and calamities, especially the evils of the protohistoric Spanish Kaffirs.”

I answer:

“I praise that her fig stew made of sugar, cinnamon, and other things like sperm. And I love to see it squirm like a live clam when I sprinkle lemon on its full lips, or dry Chinchón anise, herbal liqueur, or pure pomace from Potes, Cantabria.”

“This photo that reminds you?” Jaime asks me.

“It reminds me of the blonde girl we met, I think Romanian, on a zigzag road going to La Higueruela, in the plain of Granada, where a battle was fought at the entrance that the King of Castile Juan II made in it, in 1431.”

“It reminds me of the other one we picked up hitchhiking on the La Coruña road, who wanted to get to El Escorial in Madrid, whom we abandoned in the middle of the road, near the Valley of the Fallen Dead, because you Juan, when you were going to have sex with her, you saw that next to the good fig she had another bad one, which was a venereal outgrowth around the Hole. You told him: Crescencia, take the 20 euros, but, here, we leave you.

“Have you good luck and better sale of the fig,” I said kindly.

In both of us, the saying that “in fig time, there are no friends” was never fulfilled, because, we, we continue to be such friends and, as prostitutes from Dueñas, in the province of Palencia, who study for Trappists, we continue looking for figs and figs from figs to figs, from time to time, regardless of whether they are prickly pears, moral or infernal.