... don't ask why he has a mouth...

A sweet, sharp scent pulled me down from the refrigerator summit this morning. I descended via the door handle rungs to reach the wooden breadbox. Beside it rested a wide wire fruit bowl, dominated by a large, textured orange that had rolled loose onto the wood. It blocked the forward corridor toward the kitchen table. I approached with measured caution. Planting my boots firmly against the breadbox trim, I pressed both hands into the dimpled rind. It yielded with surprising spring. Shifting my weight, I pushed deliberately until it rolled half a rotation, settling snugly between two ceramic salt cellars. The transit lane across the counter is clear. Forward path open.