Roll Away

A lone green lime had escaped the wooden fruit bowl and sat right in the middle of the cutting board. Disorderly sphere. I trotted across the butcher block and pressed my chest firmly against its waxy rind. It rolled half an inch, then wobbled sideways. Unacceptable vector. I adjusted my stance, lowered my head, and gave a solid, deliberate heave with my snout. It bumped cleanly against the curved edge of the bowl and nestled tight against an orange. Now the board is completely clear. I climbed up onto a folded linen tea towel nearby, locked my elbows, and stood sentry over the kitchen rim.