There is an over-ripe mango on the kitchen counter. If I did not know better, it would suggest that my apartment mate is a mid-thirties Anglo, probably Protestant, dippy, and blonde. Instead of a petite Asian-ancestried woman. Because, as everyone knows, mangoes should be green, hard, and sliced into long jade wedges to be eaten with a dab of shrimp paste and smear of chili condiment. Or oily sambal trasi.
That is very heaven.
Green mango, anchovy, and fatty pork.
Another favourite.
For most mangoes, ripe is the first stage of rot.
She will "enjoy" it in a day or two.
I ain't saying nuttin'.
No sambal.
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