Zen…

It started with a mango.

Not a soft, already-cut fruit, but a full, sun-kissed, golden mango. He held it in his hands, testing its weight, his thumb pressing into its skin just enough to make a dent.

“You like mangoes?” he asked.

“Only when they’re ripe. Only when they’re messy.”

He smiled. “Good. Then watch.”

And I did. I watched him slice into it, slow, precise, peeling back the skin until the flesh was exposed. And then he bit into it—mouth full, juice dripping down his fingers, tongue catching every drop before it could escape.

It was a lesson in indulgence. In hunger. In a man who knew how to take his time yet still consume.

And as I watched, as I leaned in, as my own lips parted in sync with his—I realized he wasn’t just eating a mango. He was teaching me something about himself.

Some men rush. Some men savor. Some men bite. Some men lick.

Some men make you want to be a mango.

And that, that is a different kind of hunger.