At the fruit stand, I was in heaven. I ate mango: sun-warmed, sweet, juicy, a piece of the sun and earth. With sticky fingers, I tried guayaba, tough, seemingly unripe, and filled with small, hard seeds. The caimito, a fruit I had never seen before, was three consecutive experiences. First: soft and sweet, tender; second: even sweeter, like the brown sugar of a bruised apple; third: bitter, like the core. Piña and papaya and melón remained on my tongue with their sweetness.
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