Mangoes

There's something virtuous and murderous about the fragrance of a ripe mango. Rubbing the skin and inhaling deeply, choosing a mango is a feeling akin to flirting with a virgin, the repartee so seemingly innocent on the surface is swollen with the juices of seduction, and all it takes is one bite to pull that trigger on a vicious lust. I press the fruit against my cheek, hold it up to the sky and admire the colour, the last flare of a day before its descent into dusk.

Is it fair that I should enjoy this?

Pakistan is erupting in sectarian violence, a man in the ACT drove over his 18 y.o. girlfriend in front of her family on new year's day and fifty people have just been burnt alive in Kenya. While seeking refuge in a church. I'm going to devour a delicious fucking mango. Should I feel guilty for this pleasure, or should I sink my teeth into the sweet flesh and suck and relish its essence before I am drowned or burned and smashed and broken? If peace is fleeting and luck is nothing more, nothing less, then maybe I should take what I can, when I can, conscience be damned.

Is that wrong?

My mouth is full of nectar and my guilt is mixed with pleasure as Shyamla and I stroll past a bum filthy with dirt and grime and nothing else I can see but a sorrow I can sense. His eyes are vacant at first glance yet while I chew on the juicy fibres the focus of his stare is not at the trees and cars and passers-by but at his past. All of the drink in the world cannot wipe clean the slate he has written on, and the man's smeared face and stench and detritus may shield him from the world outside but can only sentence his turmoil to life in the prison he has become.

Fuck this mango tastes good.