Tutu took a bottle of fish sauce and the only green mango left and draped the curtain between us in the kitchenette and his cubby hole. My mother rolled her eyes at him and then me, turning up the little black and white TV so we couldn’t hear him slicing and dicing and dipping. I was mad he had taken the last green mango. Uncle had brought over a bag from his neighbor’s tree and mom had pickled some, leaving one lonely mango next to the bananas and papayas. I wanted to savor the salty sour fishy flavors myself. I would have shared. But tutu, he never shared. We watched Pat Sajak and Vanna White, my mother guessing the words and phrases before the letters were turned, yelling at the stupid contestants. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the curtain moving in and out with a rhythm that wasn’t mango eating and I quickly looked at the TV again to stare at Vanna’s pearly smiling and sparkly gown, closing my ears to anything but applause and Pat’s comments.
Moreno Matković