" Do you remember the mangoes?" she asked. She thought she was whispering but the scratching of the pen nib stopped. "You must remember them."
She could hear him push the chair away from his desk, slowly stand and then lean against the wall. The floorboards creaked.
"The mangoes?" she asked again.
She could hear him breathing. He cleared his throat and then, quietly, said, "They were sweet, were they not?"
"It was a sweetness more intense than anything I have ever known."
And then the room fell quiet. The two sat listening to the familiar sound of each other's breath. Without words, there was comfort: a sonata, tone poem of silence and knowing.
After a time, Escoffier said, "The Hindus believe that mangoes are a true sign that perfection is attainable."
She thought of the mangoes with their smooth marbled skin, the carmine and field grass green of them, and then the flesh itself, that vivid orange, and then, each bite, the juice sliding down her arm. "

― N.M. Kelby , White Truffles in Winter