I can’t sleep. It’s for a very important reason, too. On Saturday I bought three beautiful ripe small mangos from my local pulperia. I ate one and my heart melted with happiness. I died on my feet, when the yellow sweet stringy strands embraced my tongue. I slurped on the skin and sucked in every sensation I could take.
I went to eat another one tonight. I was almost running to the fridge to get it out. Yet when I looked in to take out my yellow greenish testicular shaped parcels of sweet tropical ecstasy, my heart jumped a few beats.
They weren’t there.
I searched top to bottom in the fridge, every shelf, under the veggies, in the freezer, in the cupboards, under sink . . . Nowhere. God forbid they be in the bins. No. Not the bins.
I interrogated my wife.
“Did you eat them? I won’t be mad,” I lied.
“No,” she said, raising her eyebrows at my panting obsession.
“Did you throw them out by mistake?” Punishment of death to the Judas Nazi who throws out an edible mango. Especially a sweet ripe one like Saturday’s mango. Eternal Hell fire, too.
I can accept (not very well, but I wouldn’t inflict death) that someone might steal mangos. It’s perfectly understandable. I’d do so myself. Shamelessly. At least the whoring thief experienced a slice of heaven while committing the Satanistic sin. I can get on board with that, somehow.
“And Doña Idete?”
“What about her?”
“Do you think she ate them?”
“I wouldn’t be angry,” I said, lie number two.
“Why’s it so important?”
“They were perfectly ripe mangos. I just hope she didn’t throw them out. It’ll really f–k me off.”
The thought my mangos are missing terrifies me. Seriously. I’m rolling in bed and I won’t sleep until they’re with me. Somehow. My babies. Kind of odd that I call them that and I’d happily eat them.
“So what?” many of you in the tropics are probably saying. “It’s mango season. Honduras is full of mangos. There are a hundred different types. They are quite literally growing everywhere on trees.”
My answer to that is, Shut your face.
You see, these mangos are caramel mangos. Not any normal mangos. I’ve only had them once before in Trujillo in 2013 and I’ve not had one since, well, until Saturday. They’re smaller than the average small type of mango, but so much more sweeter. And, well, with a tang of caramel. That’s right, sweet caramel. Sounds like a Rolling Stones album.
These mangos are rare. So, so rare. They are my fix. Only one makes you addicted. That’s how gloriously seductive they are. A narcotic pull. Lust. Gluttony. You get the idea.
I accept it’s not normal nor sane to build an emotional attachment with a mango. Yet this is excruciating. I want to go outside and plant five mango trees in the yard right now so I never go without again. Ever. The torment has inspired a poem. It’s short and sweet (like a caramel mango). Every word is true.
Someone’s stolen my caramel mangos,
I think I’m going to cry,
But when I find who stole those fruit,
I swear they’re gonna die.
I told you it was short.