The Sweetest Bruised Mango

The woman at the fruit stall was tying the bag when I noticed her hands. She did this thing where she twisted the plastic once, pulled it tight, and tied this tiny perfect knot. Like she actually gave a shit about how a bag of mangoes looked. I don't know why that got to me. I was tired. I'd forgotten to text my sister back for three days. There was a wet sock in my backpack from laundry I'd abandoned.

She said, "This one's soft," pointing at the left mango. I hadn't even looked. I'd just been grabbing fruit like a robot all week.

I said thanks and left. That's it. She didn't change my life. I didn't have a movie moment on the sidewalk.

But on the walk home, I held the bag away from my leg so they wouldn't bump. And I started thinking about all the things I don't hold carefully. My phone gets tossed on the couch. My jacket gets shoved in a corner.. but that's not the point.

The soft mango had a bruise near the stem. I cut around it. The fruit underneath was the sweetest of the three. That kind of pissed me off, actually. That I almost wrecked the best one.

I thought about her that night. Not because she was wise or whatever. Just because she noticed something I was about to miss and told me without making me feel stupid. I don't do that enough. I notice things and keep my mouth shut, or I say them in a way that sounds like "obviously you should've seen that."

I checked my phone six times writing this. I snapped at a delivery guy earlier. I still move too fast through most things.

But I cut that mango carefully. That's not nothing.

I ate it over the sink. Juice ran down my wrist. It was good.

That's it. Nothing wrapped up. No big lesson. Just a woman tying a knot and me paying attention for one second instead of rushing past. I'll forget tomorrow. But right now, I remember.