Once upon a time there was a lonely spoon who lived in a drawer full of knives. She didn't fit in with them, didn't understand their divisive sharpness, their talent for separation. Their thin bodies gliding like race cars through tomatoes and hams. She was meant for something else, she thought. All she ever wanted to do was gather and cradle and hold. The knives thought this was stupid. They would line up together and point at her awkwardly rounded head, would edge her out of knife-only spaces. She endured the knives' derision - she had never known anything else - but deep down her secret wish was still to fit in. She thought if she could just ignore her inner desires and be more knifelike, she'd have it made. But in the end it was no use. No matter how hard she tried her dull roundness simply couldn't cut a thing.