Sunday, June 20, 2004


I love mangoes. I love their sweetness. I love the pineyness of them. I love the color of them, both outside and inside. I love the little nose they have. I love the way they always push the little button labeled "tropical" in my head.

A few years back, a friend told me her lover had compared eating a mango to going down on a woman. They were in a long-distance relationship, and had since developed the habit of eating mangoes on the phone together. As she's describing the sensuality of it all to me, I found myself feeling a little sad for her. My intuition told me that this was not a long-term relationship, and I worried that when the relationship went sour, so would her love for this fruit.

Awhile back I discovered one of my coworkers had never eaten a mango. I liked to indulge her, so the next time I found a good one at the store, I bought it and took it in with me the next day. Morning break came and I cut into it with the paring knife I keep at my desk. Five minutes later and there we were, two women dripping with mango juice, in the middle of cubicle hell corporate America.

When the revolution comes, there'd better be mangoes.