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Poised at the top of the stairs, she hesitated to step down, what felt like vertigo coming on her. Hand to temple, the moment passed. Ricardo waited avidly at the bottom, ready to catch her up in his romantic clutch. He wavered, too, however, that inner ear thing acting up ever since the surfing accident. He's so doglike, she thought, despite his debonair looks and trimmed moustache. He reminds me of my beagle, Friskers. The pain of his loss still ripped thru her like a dull plastic knife wielded by a quivering hand. A feeling she had lived a thousand times in her lucid half-vegetable existence. She felt her roots drying and reached for a glass of water. She slipped and bounced off the portal and skidded to a precarious one-handed stop at Ricardo's feet. He too, toppled, ironically knocking his surfing trophy off the nearby stand into the fish tank where his placostimas began gnawing on it. Divorce was immanent.
