"Just smell it," she said.
It hadn’t been cut open yet, but it had an aroma—even the skin radiates fruity sweetness. That's why it's a Venezuelan mango--el perfume.
I was late to meet friends this morning, but it smells so luscious that I had to just sit with it. My romance with the mango was interrupted by the nosy neighbor next door, though. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that she had dropped the pan she was scrubbing to get a better look-see at what that weird gringa's up to now. She was probably trying to figure out why I had my eyes closed and a piece of fruit plastered against my face.