It was just that I was particularly hungry after an amphetamine day of saturated hues on the Coney Island beach with my anorexic bestie.

All I had imbibed was a nutcracker – the Caribbean answer to palatable calories under the boardwalk – and a potent rum cocktail, of sorts.

Knots of immaculate gnocchi in a small Italian shop in the West Village was the equivalent of a proposal by the time it hit midnight – witching hour, and the first time we met.

Now we cannot stop eating together.