An orange rolls across the cold tile floor of the neighborhood grocery store.

A woman with frantic black hair walks slowly after the escaping fruit, her sigh voicing her resigned indifference to yet another thing gone wrong in her day—her entire adult life, if she's allowed to be dramatic for a moment.

She tracks the runaway as it continues its trek down the aisle, between the wheels of the abandoned cart and thuds into a shoe that was probably white in its previous life.

"Yours?" asks the man attached to the shoe, straightening himself to his full height with the orange in the palm of his hand.

"Yes," she replies.

Yes, I am.