Green monkeys have the tiniest hands.
The mother grasps the hanging mango with leathery newborn fingers, wrapping her toddler-sized mouth around the skin. An infant straddles her chest, watching you like a dashboard bobblehead, its lazy stare bouncing with her movements. A voice yells for you to stop, control yourself. You roll the feeling between your thumb and index finger as you peel back the palm fronds and stare into bared, sun-stained fangs. There is no point in self-control now.
“Bite me,” you whisper. “Bite me.”
She lunges sideways, her infant's shrill alarm rising to the top of the mango tree. You watch her throw herself upward, a green shimmer ricocheting from branch to branch. From a safe vantage point, she sits back onto her haunches. The infant unlatches; beneath its unsure grip the thick branch is a tightrope. Topher touches your shoulder, but...