A minute after midnight, I awoke to a whirring sound. Inches from my nose was a white paddle, the one from the mixer that I use on a daily basis. The whirring stopped once I opened my eyes. Seconds later, when I failed to move, the whirring started again, turned up to ten, which was really eight. Someone had worn out nine and ten two or three years ago. Why didn't the mixer put his paddle in their face. They did more damage than I.
At the intense whirring, I pushed myself into a sitting position quickly, my back firmly against the wall. Despite my acknowledgment of fear, the mixer continued spinning the paddle. No more than a minute later, he let out a whine, almost as if in pain. But that wasn't possible. He was a mixer, made of metal and plastic, designed to serve a purpose. Emotions were not part of his program.
