‘Another no,’ I mumbled, staring at the trash bin of my account overflowing with rejection emails.
   It had been exactly one year since I had been unceremoniously ejected from my work. A year since my employer told me I had little talent as a dog toy naming
consultant. Apparently, Fluffy, Coco, Doom, Puppy were not market winners.
   From that day on, I got by with odd jobs and private crochet lessons (thanks to my grandmother for teaching me). I had left my apartment for a very small loft that had
become my refuge. My only companion was Blueberry, a teddy bear. At least, he appreciated the choice of name.
   So, a year later after losing my job, I was resolute to take control of my life with more enthusiasm. I would find a better job, sooner or later.
   Yet, in the meantime, I had to deal with everyday life. Think about my daily mission: to grab the last lightly crushed avocado at the farmer’s market. I had to have it
because it represented hope.
   I approached my favorite fruit with determination. The perfect mango, the one on sale because it wasn’t as firm as the others, was there. Ready to be mine. But as I
reached out my hand, another powerful one, with slender fingers, also reached for my prize.
   “Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” the man said, pulling his hand away. When I looked at him I saw a man with big hazel eyes and a smile that could light up the entire city.
   Which planet do you come from? I thought, staring into that magnetic gaze.
   “No, you go ahead,” I whispered.
   “I insist.” He repeated. ‘I love mangoes, but not to this extent.’
   More than loving it, I desperately need it.
   “Hey, are you there?” He tilted his head to look at my eyes.
   “Yep, I’m there.” I said with a sour note. So it was that on an ordinary day, in the midst of the frantic chaos of the farmers market, I vented my anger, telling a
stranger about my last year. A wonderful stranger. I told him about Fluffy, Coco, Doom, Puppy, my Blueberry bear, and the deep value of that fucking mango.
   He listened, amused. When I finished, he handed to me another mango, one of those fresh ones, perfectly ripe, without any bruises.
    "A mango for hope,” he said, looking at mine. ‘and one for new beginnings.’ He pointed to the fruit he had chosen.
   “New beginnings?” I asked. The word miracles had long since faded from the vocabulary of my memory.
   “I’m Andreas,” he said, holding out his hand.
   “Sharon.”
   “Tell me more about your catastrophic year, Sharon.” He said as we moved away from the mango area.
   I started talking as we wandered around the market.
   Not just about my life but also about the benefits of cauliflower, broccoli, oranges (and mango, of course) to the psychological implications of mismatched socks. I
discovered that Andreas was a landscape architect and painter by passion. An artist. I was talking to an artist!
   The sun was starting to set, a sign that I had spent more than an hour talking to someone. In truth, I felt like I had known Andreas for a long time. He turned to me.
   “Tomorrow evening, I have the opening of my first painting exhibition, do you want to come?”
   “An exhibition?” I asked, my heart doing a little tap dance.
   “But wasn’t painting just a passion?”
   “It is. I support myself with my work as an architect,” he said. “But this doesn’t prevent me from sharing my paintings with a select audience of connoisseurs.”
   “I’m not an expert,” I specified to protect my total ignorance on the subject. “but I will come!”
   The following evening, I found myself standing in a trendy art gallery, surrounded by abstract shapes. To my inexperienced eye, they resembled oversized tomatoes.
   Later, we sipped some good Prosecco and appetizers at a place near the gallery. The first of a series of meetings.
   “So, Sharon,” he said to me one evening at his house. An official invitation. A perfect dinner, prepared by him. The best part? The mango sorbet as a final touch to a
delicious meal. “a year after losing your job, what does the mango of hope tell you?”
   “It gave me a gift. Something special.”
   ‘Something special or someone special?’
   “Something that changed my life. A smile. Yours.” I say, holding his gaze. That missing piece of the puzzle. That enveloping embrace that dissolves every fear.”
   We kissed. Andreas’ lips had the sweetness of ripe mango and the softness of its pulp.
   I love him. And mango too! It gave me a deliciously juicy love.