I didn't see or hear anything, but I was suddenly overwhelmed by the flowery honey scent of ripe mangoes and the harsher, alcoholic fumes from piles of fruit fermenting on the ground. And then I realized what she was so excited about. Mangoes were dropping from the trees in every direction. Some hit the ground with a dull thud, others fell silently and a few splatted spectacularly into puddles of fruity soup.

We gathered as many mangoes as we could carry and then some. They were mostly the common, slightly stringy variety we call Kidneys, but they were sweet and delicious. We bit into the skin and sucked the sun-warmed fruit through the jagged holes, tossing the shriveled remains out the window. It was like making out with a mango, and there is simply nothing else like its sugary, succulent kiss.

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