The Mangoes 2.1

Part 2 - Andreas II

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The Mangoes

He came back with a plate piled with mangoes. Proud. Free of doubt. Arms raised. Ripe gold.

“From up north. They fell early. They’re good,” Andreas said.

I didn’t answer. I felt the mango burning in my hand, my cheeks hot. He read my silence and set a mango in Adriana’s hand before looking at me. She turned just as he stopped. The timing was perfect, precise, choreographed.

“Are they from your ranch?” she asked, turning it in her fingers like it had been hers since before. “Mangoes from the north.”

He leaned in and set the plate before the three of us, an offering.

“I’m Andreas,” he said, finally meeting her eyes. “They’re from the farm.”

“I knew this would happen,” she said, unhurried.

Juice ran down her wrist. She lifted her hand, but it was too late. The liquid slid to her elbow, slow, insistent. She wiped the excess with the back of her hand, leaving a golden line. Andreas watched her.

“I didn’t think it would be today,” he said with his half smile—very him.

“I’m Adriana,” she said, like it was only a detail.

“Adriana,” he repeated, quiet. “A pleasure.”

“Likewise,” she said, peeling the mango with her fingers. She rubbed her thumb and forefinger to loosen a fiber.

“Can I use a knife?” she asked, half amused, half resigned.

“No. That’s not part of the ritual. Did you forget?”

“What part, getting sticky?”

“Exactly,” he said. “Otherwise it doesn’t count. No knife. You eat them with your hands.”

I swallowed.

Before she bit, she moistened her lower lip, testing the sweetness. Andreas laughed.

We bit, the three of us, in the same rhythm. Instinctive. Synchronized.

“So what’s the ranch like?” Adriana asked, just enough voice to pull us back. A strand clung to her fingertip. “Gael says it’s like another world. Everything breathes more slowly there.”

Andreas nodded.

“Life there is simple. Sometimes hard. You work a lot. Some days the sky arranges your body and sets you somewhere else.”

He moistened his lower lip too, without noticing. He took another bite, unhurried now, as if tasting helped him think. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the same line, the same stroke as hers.

He paused.

“The good thing, really, is that if you get lost, no one notices.”

Adriana looked at him. It sounded like a thought she already knew.

“Sounds like magic. Here, with everything so connected and visible, I sometimes feel there’s nowhere to hide.”

“Out there, no one calls if you go missing,” he said, looking at me. “Sometimes it’s a relief. Sometimes it weighs.”

He rubbed his thumb against his forefinger and dropped a thread of pulp onto the napkin. She mirrored the gesture.

“Lately I wonder if I breathe easier there because I’m happy, or just because I don’t have time to think about it.”

He closed his eyes a fraction too long. Something slipped.

“Don’t be fooled. The city knows loneliness too,” she said.

She paused.

“Do people call you Andreas?” she asked. “Or something else?”

“It depends who’s asking. With Juano, I’m ‘Andrés.’ With the guys on the field, ‘Andy.’ With your grandfather, ‘el serrano.’ And when I hear that, I know it’s time to work.”

“I’ve had different names too. Puerto Rico, Lima, the new house. None of them fully sticks.”

“Sometimes you end up on the edge,” he said.

“In the city, I miss not being seen,” she said. “Being and not being.”

“On the farm, I miss thinking. There the body decides first,” Andreas said.

“Must be nice, living where not everyone is watching. Though I don’t know how I’d survive without a hair salon nearby,” Adriana said.

He laughed.

“Out there you forget that stuff. But I’m warning you, your hair has a life of its own.”

“My hair has heat trauma. Beyond messy.”

“Same as Gael with mangoes,” Andreas added, glancing at me.

“Sorry?” I said, mouth full.

“The way he devours them.” Adriana laughed. “If you don’t split it with your fingers and get yourself covered, it isn’t a mango, right?”

“Forgive me for having northern manners,” I said, lifting a finger. “You’re not ready for this conversation.”

We laughed. Sticky juice on our hands, golden pulp shining on our lips. It was like watching a Linklater film.

Everything was framed. Perfect light. Focus. I was the spectator.

They were the script. Close-up. I was the background. Still in frame.

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