Lizards and Mangos

Lizards and Mangos

Black it was; we half concealed beneath that maroon flavored comforter that She loved.  Neither warmth nor hue She said it was, but the little fuzz-balls that clung to the underside.  The “fuzzies” as She called them, She would nestle to cheek, and in slow, circular, sweeping motion massage.
As the rods of my retina woke from their slumber, I began to see that soft luminescence given man, for the night, by that celestial orb graced by Neal Armstrong in 1969.  Subdued by shades of gray, the blackness sought refuge in the far corners of our bedchamber.
There I sat at bed’s end, my naked feet resting on piercingly cold concrete floor.  Over shoulder gazed I at her motionless figure:
As I sat, something only herd in her presence, like the speaking of my soul, urged me to lye once more beside her, that I may be saturated by her warmth.  I ached to hide beneath the blanket; She held firmly yet tenderly within my arms; her brunette stimulating to insanity my cheek and nose tip.
On her right she lay, facing the wall that married the bed.  Shadows filled the soft curves of her naked back.  Comfortable She was, left knee drawn closely to breast.  At hip, wrapping from side to back, one of those long slender wrinkles made by resting too long on rippled counterpane.  Glinting on lonely finger of childish hands, loosely clasped upon pillow of white, the golden band of opal ring She cherished.
A tragedy that this enchanting exhibit would perish with the dawn, Rembrandt or Michelangelo I desired to be that I might, if it were within the reach of men, preserve without end this scene.  I would halt the rising of the sun, place canvas on easel, and apply with brush my tones.  After eons of trial, I would be forced to cede that, my pallet being no match for His, I was unable to capture her essence.  On knees, hands trusted toward the firmament, I would cry with great vigor unto my Christian Father the superiority of His vision.
Lacing steel-toed Caterpillar boots, I considered what we were to have for breakfast:
Grapefruit and pears? No.  Mangos?  Yes, that sounds good, a wave of exhilaration flooding my person.  Mangos and peaches with orange juice.  Splendid!  We’ll get one mango and two peaches.  Oh, while I’m out I must remember to get some vegetables for the lizards.
Faded, black, and well-worn leather billfold in Wrangler seat pocket, I searched room’s table for keys.  My best effort to keep the night’s unbroken silence, I put forth; however, as is usually the case, the table in corner blackened supported candle, placed within stand of glass, which blind fumbling, in search of brass lock-turns, cast to foundation.  Fragmented by collision with that manmade stone underfoot, shards glittered, sparkled like facets of diamond in early morning glow.  With stand also shattered was the silence, and in vision peripheral that figure of shadow stirred.
Casting quickly my eyes her direction, through dimmed light I saw, She with fingertips rubbed slowly her eyes as to manually set the focus.
“What are you doing?”  She eked, somewhat hoarsely, through arid trachea.
“Searching for my keys.  Do you know where they are?”
“No.  What was that noise?”
“The candleholder, the glass one you liked.”
“Where you going?”
“To the store to get some breakfast and lizard food…  What do you think about mangos and peaches with orange juice?”
“Good…  Can we share with the lizards?”
“Yah, sure, I’ll get some extra.  Now, go back to sleep; I’ll be back soon.”
“No, I want to go too.”
“I was hoping to find you still in bed when I got back.”
“I can get in bed again when we get back.”
“Ok, lets go.  The store will open in ten-minutes.”
Once more resting at bed’s foot, looking through the pane at the moon perched on the western skyline, motion of shadow I observed in foreground.  There I spied one of our four children: Under two years, the youngest of our iguanas she was; however, she being nearly four feet in length and of twice the girth as the three boys, she was the largest.
Seeing that she was awake, as she tasted several times the surface that supported her, I stood, stepped, and hefted her by tail root.
“That’s a girl, do you want to go to the store too?”  I enquired as if she possessed a larynx.
“You’re not taking her with us are you?”
“Yah, sure, why not?”  I answered that voice, now softened, which came from behind.
“Because she’s too big, and doesn’t like me the way she does you; she’s always trying to whip me with her tail.”
“Ah, she’ll be good…  You ready to go?”
“Yah, I just got to get my hoodie.”
That “hoodie” a sweater with hood comprised of pink cotton, given her by my mother, possessed also the “fuzzies”.  Many of her belongings had those fuzz balls; I could never understand the attraction.  To my skin the balls felt coarse like sandpaper of fine grit, but maybe to dermas smooth and soft the sensation was more pleasurable.
Solid wooden door closed behind, on porch we now stood, pajama pants of flannel blue and “hoodie” She donned.  Viewing the East we could see the black pursued by morning shade.  Beginning to crest was the sun over Camelback Mountain.
We drove to the store by way of Butler, turning left on 31st, then right at Northern.  We pulled into parking lot on corner northeastern; truck parking on building’s south side, we had a straight walk to grocery entry doors.  Locking the doors, we jumped down from the Toyota, suspended on 35” tires.
Fingers interlocked we crossed the threshold.  The fruits we sought located to the rear of store’s north end.  Slowly we walked, enjoying one another’s company.
I do not remember if ever I told her haw much I loved those morning walks through the store with her.  There was just something about shopping early when the store was coming to life; the feeling amplified when one meal at a time we purchased.  Whether walking quickly through hallway, cold and walled by freezers or selecting items from produce section, it all had a magical feel about it; that even now, I am unable to capture with words.
“Hello.” She said to the man who prepared every morning for customers the tillers’ bounty of our land.
Paring knife in hand, the man of stocky build, wearing pine green apron of rubber over blue long-sleeved shirt and black slacks, turned to face us.
“Good morning.”  He said.
“Morning.”  She and I said in harmony.
“We came for peaches and mangos.” She informed him.  “Can you pick some good ones for us?”
“Sure.”  He said walking toward that stand where fuzzy fruit was displayed.  “I’ve got a box of old vegetables and green trimmings for your lizards in the back.”
During the past few months we had come to know the produce man well and were on friendly terms with him.  Every morning he would give to us a box of fruits and vegetables that were too old for the shelves, they were free and the lizards did not care that the shelf life had expired, so we accepted every time the carton.
“Thank you.”  She said.
“No problem.  How are the iguanas today?”  He asked as usual.
“They’re fine.  They really liked that papaya you gave us yesterday.”  I said as he filled my hands with three peaches.  “We’ve got the girl out in the truck if you want to come and see her.”
“Where did She go?”  He said, motioning to the empty space beside me.
“She probably went to get the OJ.”
“No, I can’t get away today, but maybe next time I’ll be able to see them… How many of these you want?”  He inquired showing me the yellow fruit held in his large calloused palm.
“Just Two.” I answered him.
Carrying cardboard box She approached dropping it at my feet.
“That’s heavy! You carry it.”  She said, with eyes set on my person.
“Ok, but why didn’t you let me get it?”
“The Guy,” as we called him had, placed mangos that he selected for us in one of those familiar, clear, plastic sacks for loose fruit.  We thanked him for his expertise as he held open for me the bag, to which I added the peaches.
My hands full, She waved goodbye as we proceeded to the aisle of frozen concentrated drinks.  Rushing through corridor sub-zero, She snatched, with speed of asp, the frosted cylinder with tin end-caps.
“Is this good?” She asked.
“Fine.”
At register that morning a girl named Melissa whom I remember being in Mrs. Bill’s Sixth-grade class with me.  I do not know if she recognized me; if she did she never said.  Melissa rung-up fruit and juice as I from billfold retrieved the required $2.34.
“Thank you.”  We said, departing the building.
In the truck, She slicing with Gerber pocketknife a peach to feed the girl, we drove round the back of the shopping center.  Because there were no speed bumps, stop signs, or traffic this was the quickest way to exit the parking lot.  Listening to the 22-R engine that I had rebuilt only days before, we turned right onto 35th, again at Butler, and left onto 27th drive. 
Juice brimming the lips of our glasses, peach halves depitted and spread upon plate ceramic with mango slices round the edge, we sat in bedroom adjoining ours, the “lizard room” we called it, eating our breakfast while watching the iguanas make a mess of the two plates before them.  In comfortable silence we sat, She and I with lizards and mangos.