Between the others in the drawer the teaspoon nestles, cupping its neighbour as it in turn is held. Stamped at the same press as its fellows, its curves are mirrored exactly on either side, and it is the sheer perfection of form, the lack of any sensation of difference, which evokes a yearning. It does not speculate as to whether the other spoons feel similarly. It knows they must; they are merely iterations of one object. To be held by oneself is to not be held.
The welcome invasion of daylight as the drawer slides open is the dawn of a new hope, but a fork is selected, and a pair of butterknives. The darkness returns, and yet it is a comfort, for it signals the inevitable approach of that time when the spoon will be chosen. And oh! the splendour of that moment makes the waiting all the more delicious - indeed, bearable.
It’s happened many a time, and the memories remain inviolable and sacred. The being chosen over and above fellow spoons; the sudden warmth of fingers closing about one’s handle; the rush of allowing oneself to rise from the drawer and....
What happens thereafter must be described with some delicacy, for it does not do to sully such moments with profane talk. The spoon has been introduced suddenly to the oily, yielding morass inside the peanut butter jar, or left tantalisingly beside the coffee mug where a tension builds between them, heralding that moment when the spoon is plunged into the steaming froth and performs its function, emerging sated, rivulets of brown sugary foam clinging to its warmed surface....
And always the inevitable come-down. The tawdriness of being stood in a rack with similarly spent implements, where one might learn of a butterknife’s latest dalliance with honey and bread, or a fork’s ribald penetration of a pickled onion. And then the cleansing flow of water, its warmth and suds scouring away this uncomfortable taint and leaving only the glorious memories. Until next time.
Since departing its warm sanctuary, the egg has had only one purpose: to nourish, and to offer itself as the incubatory housing for a new life. As fortune would have it, the virile presence has been denied this particular egg, and it lacks the means to develop a living being within it, so must content itself with sustaining life without. Its sole intent is towards this end. In ceasing to be, it will endure in forms greater than itself. Thus - the ovoid perspective on the circle of life - the egg will live forever.
For this reason the egg does not fear when lifted from its carton, leaving behind seven of its compatriots in the same manner in which four have already successively departed. It sees this as simply the next stage towards completing its goal. The searing heat of the water cleanses the egg, purging it, readying it for its destiny, even as its soft inner parts harden and congeal. This is the way to eternal life.
The egg is drawn from the water and placed upon a pedestal crafted specifically for its kind. The eggcup holds the egg securely, yet displays the perfect arc of its shell to the heavens. The rim of the cup is chipped and hairlines trace ancient paths through the porcelain glaze; signs that this ritual has been performed many times previously. Dolmens of toasted bread line the platter on which the eggcup is ceremoniously placed, and the egg is ready for its lover.
Waiting with some unease on the timber tabletop is the teaspoon. It has gazed in fascination at the chromium surfaces of the salt and pepper shakers, wondering at the delights contained within, and yet the silver curves feel at once alluring and sterile. The spoon knows all too well the feel of metal against metal, and its yearning is for the touch of something patently other.
Like a craft from the heavens, the egg descends on its altar to the table. The spoon surveys the translucent coating of the eggcup, slowly taking in its rim, and then - oh! The abundance of speckled-brown curvature above! Its fine pressed-sand texture, its parabola so enticing! The abrupt hardness of a shell designed with mathematical precision to protect its inner treasures! The spoon is afraid to dare, to hope, to dream, that it will be the one to broach that perfect casing and sound the depths within, and yet there is no other.
Likewise, the egg deems the table fittingly sacred for this rite. It strives to offer its bounteous curvature more fully skyward, as though willing the universe to accept the egg unto itself. In that moment, the spoon and the egg are aware that the universe is no mere observer in the great erotic dance that is breakfast; it has conspired to fate them to each other. And each gives thanks.
The spoon is raised to the egg, and at that first tantalising touch, sparks surely fly; an ozone tinge permeates the air between them as the spoon’s smooth lip rasps the grainy shell. The egg recognizes its own ovoid form in the head of the spoon, where its convex reflection is mirrored as though painted. In this moment, there is shared understanding, and their destiny is apparent and gladly welcomed by both.
The spoon draws back, and with a sharp tap cracks through the outer casing of the egg. With an eagerness which could be interpreted as violence by those unversed in the deeper nuances, the top of the egg is caressed away like a punch, exposing that which was hidden and has never before been known. The egg shivers on its cup, spilling its secrets in a rivulet down its flanks, and displays yet deeper mysteries. Beneath the shimmering layer of tremulous white is the barest hint of gold.
And yet the spoon is in no rush to consummate this pairing. It dives down, wresting the dome of white flesh from the lid of the egg and delivering it to the universe’s waiting maw. The mysteries glimpsed therein are unfathomable, and the spoon merely awaits its return to its lover. Open to him, its bounty offered for the taking, the egg looks more lovely than could be conceived. Down plunges the spoon again, breaking open the yolk and carrying its golden ambrosia aloft, returning again and again as in fervent worship, both of the beauty of the egg itself, and of the universe which has countenanced this romance.
Too soon the egg achieves that to which it aspired; its very atoms are being allocated places inside the machinations of the universe, where they join the greater dance in celebration of life. The spoon, sated, retains a congealing crust of golden yolk, a keepsake it treasures for the few short hours before the dishwasher steals it away and returns to the spoon its inscrutable metallic shine.
Alone amongst the crowded drawer, the teaspoon dreams of brown-speckled parabola, soft yielding white flesh, and always that first glimpse and then taste of golden heart. It awaits an inevitable return to the soil, when it will relinquish its alloys to eternity, and again be united with its lover.