Mango

The fruit stand leaned against the corner of the street like an old friend, its wooden planks warped by rain and sun, edges softened from decades of elbows leaning. A torn blue tarp flapped overhead, shading pyramids of mangoes stacked like treasure, with skins glowing in mottled greens, bruised yellows, streaks of fire-orange and blood-red. They looked alive, each one sweating under the heat, as though the sun itself had been bottled inside.

The vendor, a man with a straw hat frayed at the rim, lifted a mango from the pile. His hands were thick, browned by the sun, etched with calluses that spoke of machetes swung and earth turned. The fruit looked small against his palm, but he held it with reverence, turning it toward the light as if judging not just ripeness but its truth.

“Este está dulce,” he said, voice rolling easily, worn smooth like a stone in a river. He pressed the mango into my hands. It was heavy, surprising, its skin warm as though it had just dropped from the branch, still carrying the breath of the tree.

The air around the stand was a stew of scents—sweet pulp from the mangoes split open and fermenting on the ground, sharp citrus from a pile of limes, earthy dust rising each time a bus roared past. Smoke from a street vendor’s grill drifted in, mingling with the smell of charred corn and sizzling pork fat.

Behind me, children shouted, barefoot on the cracked pavement, a deflated soccer ball scuffing up dust as they kicked it past a line of stray dogs napping in the shade. A radio from somewhere nearby hummed with salsa, brass horns tangled with the caw of a parrot perched on a telephone wire. A woman called, “¡Pura vida!” as she passed with a basket of mamon chino balanced effortlessly on her hip, the magenta glowing like embers.

The vendor slit the mango open with a pocketknife worn so thin the handle gleamed like bone. The blade slid easily, and the fruit split apart, its flesh glistening in the sun, golden as melted amber, with threads of juice already dripping down his wrist, sticky and slow. He offered me half with a nod, simple and wise.

The first bite silenced the world. The sweetness flooded my mouth, so ripe it tasted like the sky had condensed into nectar. It clung to my tongue, syrupy and thick, fibers tugging gently at my teeth. Juice ran down my chin, dripping onto my wrist, catching the light before falling to the earth.

The vendor grinned, wiped his hand on his shirt, and reached for another mango to cut. The street carried on—motorcycles whining, the parrot shouting nonsense, a child chasing the ball too far, and being called back. I stood there chewing slowly, juice sticky on my fingers, the air thick with heat and fruit.