An ode to the mango
The moment I rounded the corner into the kitchen, it was like I was hit in the face.
“Wow,” I blinked twice. “It smells really sweet out here.”
He looked up from the mango he was slicing. “Here, have some.” He held out a slice of mango, crosshatched with slices.
“It isn’t one of yours,” he offered. ‘Mine’ being the three mangos I brought home from Camp Blogaway a couple of days ago, which were sitting on the kitchen table, not quite ripe.
No, this was one of the ones he brought home from his parents, probably at least a week ago. Which meant it had sat a week in the fridge, ripening until the skin was wrinkly and speckled, and the flesh gave easily at the slightest squeeze.
I peeled back one edge of the skin, and scraped a small bite of the cold mango flesh off with my teeth.
“Wow, that’s sweet,” I exclaimed, eyes wide. I took another bite and then shuddered, mango juice running down my thumb. It was like eating candy, the sweetness overwhelming without being cloying. Sweet enough to feel like a guilty pleasure, I couldn’t stop going back for more.
In an attempt to feign some sense of decorum, I grabbed a spoon to separate each bite of mango flesh from the skin. And then continued to scrape away at the flesh, trying to get every last bit of that sweet, soft, juicy orange mango, until I had scraped it so thin that the skin was almost transparent in some places.
Now the empty mango skin sits by me, teasing me with its lingering scent. And I can’t help but wonder… do you think he would notice if I snuck off with his other ripe mango that’s tempting me from the fridge?
