Non-fiction

Peeling the Mango
Matthew Dexter

So I went to the bank with optimism and confidence; departed brokenhearted with bloodshot eyes. The cumulonimbus capillatus clouds like stratospheric teardrops kissing the obstinate teller. When will we make love in Spanish? Why can’t we smell the fresh sea salt like other places by the ocean? Why must all this commotion on the highway make life so complicated? But this is paradise, right?

So how hard can it be to make a transfer in a Mexican bank? I mean a transfer to another checking account in the same bank; in the same peninsula. This is only a thousand dollar cash transfer; you’d think the goddamn sky was falling or something.

“Si,” I say, pretending I know what the hell demented specifics of rapid-fire Spanish I’m listening to when half-attractive Mexican women infuriate me and I smile and pretend to decipher the dynamics of their accents.

Melodious enchantment turns me into stone. I bathe in her moist pink tongue, swim in her soft lips: Mexican volcanic cantera fountain.

My Mexican wife, my lover till death, wrote me a check in dollars from her personal account. (Of course we “misplaced” her check during our move the month before so we searched for days before she found it (in the place where we seemingly searched the most.))

So I check with ease at Banamex, adjacent to Walmart, a wonderful bank, efficient for the most part, offering friendly service, departed satisfied (not as a client but a customer) then headed to the other bank: Bancomer, for a (seemingly simple) transfer.

This was the easiest part; just wait in line and then buy some breakfast and get to work.

But it didn’t turn out to be…

“Entonces?” I go.

“Entonces…,” she goes, a million miles an hour, “esteeeeee…”

I get lost in her eyes, the perfect unwrinkled face of fresh youthful hope; all the good the world has to offer; the promise like golden sunlight in her dark eyes; blind to the interminable struggle in America, her flesh so soft, like a mango I could peel if I only listened hard enough.

___

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One response to “Non-fiction

  1. Pingback: Stories and Poetry by Matthew Dexter « Stories by Matthew Dexter

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