Low to the ground, under the table, Robert never gets dizzy. Not plugged in. Not spinning, grinding up walnuts or blending a root.
His red round button unclicked, bladed brow arch unquivered. Then a hand grabs on to his chord, slips it into the wall socket. A timer ringing over the oven. Robert's vertigo kicking in
in the emulsification of
an olive oil based salad dressing. Nauseous. A golden sea
in his head, whirling.