Mango

I was out shopping the other day. It was cold and grey, and I’d slogged my way to the market with a heavy heart. The bus was packed as ever - I was wedged into a pack of cold, unyielding south London bodies and the air was thick with tuts and sighs, toothsucking and general disgruntlement, until it tipped us all out in front of Brixton tube.

 

So there I was, walking down Granville Arcade, past the fruit and veg, the African snails, the yam and plantain and green bananas, and all at once I was reading a sign above a pile of nice, juicy fruits that said:

 

Lady, lady, please don’t squeeze up, squeeze up me mango!

 

I felt myself shrinking, softly. It was not an unpleasant feeling – as I got smaller I got warmer, sinking comfortably into myself. My innermost core started to glow, the warmth spreading into my skin.

 

As I shrank, the feelings of London angst began to melt away. I could feel my bones relaxing and my skin smoothing out – oils starting to trickle throughout my system. All the sour feelings were turning deliciously sweet. Drip by drip, a feeling of warm contentment percolated through.

 

I wrapped my arms around myself, hugging in all those good, rich feelings, and I felt my legs being sucked up – my bottom grew larger and firmer to accommodate them. I could feel my bottom starting to glow! My heart started pumping; a steady, rhythmic beat. I could feel my blood circulating - it was turning into sweet and juicy liquid. I was so juicy I could have burst except for the firm skin holding me in. I felt fluid but secure and supremely confident sitting up there under the stallholder’s cheeky sign. I was glowing like tropical sunshine on that cold, dark London day.

 

by Becca Leathlean