“Another ‘minor setback,’” Oliver growled to no one in particular.
A moment later, fully extricated from the citrus mess he had created, Oliver set about gathering the errant oranges from their newly acquired hideaways. He was just glad his wife hadn’t been in the room to see him fall - to his mind, she had given him enough grief about starting his new business already and he didn’t need her nagging him about his clumsiness on top of it. That’s not to say he didn’t appreciate her for who she was - he just didn’t want to put up with her constant critique of all of his actions.
Confident he had found the last of the oranges, Oliver looked around at the room in general. Sure it was an old building, he thought, but the price was right - and it’s smack dab in the middle of the town. As he casually inspected the walls, he felt a little pride in himself. He was excited to own his own business and he had so many ideas he wanted to implement - if only his wife would let him. With that thought his demeanor soured again. He gathered what remained of the crate and all of the damaged oranges and headed back to the front room.
Back in the store proper, he set the now citrus-soaked crate on his stainless steel countertop and reached for his blender. He had decided on his walk from the storage room that an orange smoothie made from the salvageable parts of the crushed fruit would help lighten his mood and, if there was enough for two, might mitigate the scolding from his wife. He set the blender on the counter and, one hand gripping the countertop for support, he plugged the blender in. His world went white.
“Fate must have conspired against him,” the coroner told the officer who was now inspecting the late shop owner. “The old wiring, the conductivity of citric acid and the bare metal made his body part of a nasty circuit.”
“That’s really unfortunate,” the officer replied, looking for and finding no obvious signs of foul play. “Third one in a decade.”