The kitchen was a mess. Pretend food and real crumbs covered the floor. This had the advantage of concealing the chips in the linoleum, at least. Jason, the child, sat among the toys, pretending to eat a pea sandwich. Sophy, the mother, stood at the counter amid a litter of mail, wondering what to make for lunch.

Sophy turned to open the refrigerator. The calendar slid loose from its magnets, crashed to the floor. Jason laughed. Sophy sighed and picked it back up, hung it between the swimming lesson schedule and the sticker art. She opened the refrigerator door. Milk, juice, catsup, jam, macaroni and cheese, eggs, mysterious leftovers wrapped in aluminum foil, white cartons of Chinese food. She peered into silver bowls of rice and vegetables, sniffed. Jason came over to rearrange the cans of soda on the lowest shelf.

"What would you like for lunch?" Sophy asked him.

"You're building," he said, stacking one can on another.

"Lunch? Jason, are you hungry?" she bent down next to him, caught a can about to roll across the room.

He concentrated hard and turned the can upside down, set it next to his first stack. "No."

"Mommy is. I'm going to have some macaroni and cheese." She pulled it toward her. She opened the crisper. "And some orange."

"Orange. Want some orange."

"Okay. Sit at your table while I make it." Sophy peeled the orange, felt the sting of the juice under her nails as she pierced the white skin underneath the orange part. Two sections for Jason were cut into bites. A spoon of cold macaroni joined them on the plate.

"Spoon?" Jason asked. Sophy handed him his special one with the bunny on the handle. Jason shook it, used his other hand to put macaroni on it, popped it in his mouth.

The microwave beeped. Sophy took her warm macaroni and cold orange and crowded her knees under the small table. She ate. It had been a long time since she had eaten oranges.

It reminded her of the playground at school when she was six or seven. The dusty smell of tanbark stirred in her nose almost. She heard the memory of lunch boxes rustily opening. And she felt the sickening jar of the asphalt against her thigh as she slid across the handball court, trying to hit the ball and hold her orange at the same time.

Jason took the opportunity of standing on his chair, began to jump. The chair tilted. He wobbled, fell, bumping his head on a plastic tomato and on the floor. He cried. He rubbed at his eyes with his hand, clutched around the bite of orange.

Sophy scooped him up, cuddled him close under her chin. She whispered to him, to comfort him, and herself.