The overripe mango that sits promptly on my desk stares at me through its one eye, indignantly asking to be eaten – before it goes bad. I consider, strongly, the mango’s proposition. Contemplating the level of hunger, or desire I have for this demanding piece of fruit. It may be that the latte I just finished burnt off any remaining taste buds I have, or it may be that I find something amusing about holding a mango hostage of its pride – but I just can’t eat it. A once firm, confident specimen edging ever closer to becoming a wrinkly, seeping, sack of rotten juice. Knowingly, I chain it to its fate by refusing to slice the skin back and swallow its sweetness. It demands to be mutilated rather than aged. As I sit here writing of my hostage, it continues to stare through its eye – spiting me. Cursing me with future putrid fruit, with worms in my apples, and with brown bananas. Oh, how I hate brown bananas. This mango has learnt well in the time it’s spent in my room, it knows my weaknesses. I always knew that fruit had character, but this mango – I tell you, it’s something else.