forbidden fruit

If you could only eat one fruit with the skin on — kiwi or mango — which would you choose?

If you could only eat one fruit with the skin on — kiwi or mango — which would you choose?

I asked the internet, and over 800,000 people voted, with a perfect 50/50 split between kiwi and mango. Ridiculous. I am as shocked as you are.

I thought kiwis were the obvious answer. Their skin looks prickly, but its appearance doesn’t match its tenderness. Even better if it’s a golden kiwi – hairless and born ready. When I thought of a mango, I imagined a red mango, with thick leather skin better worn as a belt than in my mouth.

But, I forgot about yellow mangoes. Skin so soft that the thought of removing it is an act of colonization.

Of course, this isn’t about kiwis or mangoes and which has the most edible skin. It’s about eating the skin of one fruit and claiming it has the softest skin of all of the skinned fruits. You hold this opinion for years, until you’re confronted with tasting the skin of another fruit, only to be met with ego death and surprise: it’s softer. You didn’t think another fruit’s skin would be softer than your precious, hand selected, perfectly ripe kiwi.

In monogamous dating, the un/spoken rule is that you are romantically and physically tied to one person. Spiritually, I am attracted to the idea of being physically and romantically tied to multiple people. Logistically, one is plenty. I am satisfied.

When I’m in love, I have horseblinders on. I’m blind to advances and farsighted to flirtation. I like to openly share my attraction to others with a lover, but there are few where sharing your attraction to them is best kept unsaid.

Which is great — because you don’t even notice what goes unseen and unspoken.

Until you do.

You’re flooded with every moment you tried ignoring them.

Darting your eyes away

from the vein in their forearm that bulges like an overfilled shopping bag

from the shape of their wrist that glides into their palm, which is cartoonishly rectangular when they make a fist.

You think it’s cute. (No. No you can’t don’t.)

From the shape of their shoulders, built like a walk-in closet, with their collarbones adorning this space — this precious space — like wooden hangers.

You’ve never actually looked at their

chest

torso

hips

waist

thighs

The temptation from your peripheral vision is enough to teleport you back to Tuesday religion class.

You look at the cross behind their sink.

“That stupid cross”, you say, while rolling your eyes

“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

Deliver. Deliver. Deliver.

“Delivery!”

Your food arrived. Distraction. Thank fucking God.

You kiss your lover, who’s not really yours

But you are in love. And that love is a Special Thing.

It also has an expiration date.

I didn’t know love was perishable.

If I want a non-perishable love,

do I have to stock up in preparation for war?

What war – is it already here?

I guess it doesn’t matter if I want a kiwi or a mango

if they’re both going to rot anyways.