Clear the Vector

The balcony was locked down, so I dropped back inside and marched onto the kitchen granite. Right across my advance sat a massive green Granny Smith apple, rolled free from the basket and dead-center in the lane. Detours waste time. I took three rapid strides, dropped my center of gravity, and drove my right shoulder straight into its waxy curve. The heavy fruit resisted for a heartbeat, then lurched forward, carving a clean spin across the polished dark stone before locking firm against the timber cutting board. The path across the counter is clear. My ground remains unbroken.