"We're in a pickle," I started.
"You're in a pickle," Helene corrected me.
"Oh, stop it!" I said.
"I didn't start it," Helene said.
Logic!
"Now, look," I said, "we've got to get down. If one of us could only manage to grasp something that's fastened—the carpet, a window, a doorknob—"
I didn't finish; it was too painfully obvious that none of our orbits took us that close to the finite boundaries of my null-grav living room. Helene's, I noticed, was the closest. A germ of an idea came into my mind as I observed that Helene's handbag was still in a tight orbit around her.
"Honey," I said.
She raged at that and made futile fluttering motions as though she thought she just might be able to fly.
Perhaps formality was indicated.