It’s barely 7:30am in the morning and my parents’ backyard matching making business is in full swing. The targeted males sway nervously as my mom sets her scrutinizing gaze upon their pale yellow faces, deciding which lucky ones will be plucked from the crowd to meet their mate. The rest of them will either get their chance tomorrow or wither away. There’s not much time to dally before she has to head to her day job so she picks two worthy candidates and takes them around the corner where a few femmes are waiting. Without so much as a cursory greeting, the males and females get busy doing the deed. All that is left is to wait for the resulting union to bear fruit. A bitter fruit.