She had a setback. She suffered a blow. She had a string of personal misfortunes. There was the toner cartridge, shaken when the plastic tab was already off, her cream silk blouse, her boss’ contact lens. That was a mishap. There was the oil running low, so she checked it, and she added it, but she left the engine cap off, and the smoke wafted up but there was no stopping on the bridge, and she didn’t know why they said that but she figured it was so you would not get hit. She read about a guy who pulled over on the bridge when he got rear-ended and the accident didn’t kill him but another car hit his car and his car rolled forward and hit him and that threw him over the railing and he fell into the ocean. So she knew better than to stop. There was the callus remover blade she bought off of QVC that was a Smart Razor, that said it shaved away only callused skin; it was so smart it knew to stop at soft skin; it wouldn’t cut it. That was an unfortunate accident. There was the blind date that was going so well, a new leaf, a light at the end of the tunnel, so well that she excused herself from her clam linguini and went into the restroom to put in her diaphragm right then and there, no awkward pauses later. She popped the case and lubed the rubber cup’s soft rim. She put one foot on the toilet and pinched the bendy sides together; saw it sproing out of her hand and hit the wall, roll across the tiles and slip beneath the gap under the door into the restaurant, onto the green and yellow carpet. That was a misadventure. That was a regret.