By Sheri LaVay
At the fork in the road I went with the spoon. I pitied the fork; she seemed to have had a hard life. She just lay there, her tines bent and tangled and pointing in each of the four directions. As a guidepost she was totally hopeless.
I considered the knife. I was wary of him; after all, everyone knows he and the fork had an on-again, off-again relationship, sometimes executing a perfect tango, other times going their separate ways. He gave me a sharp look. I could tell he was keen, but he was definitely an edgy character. Besides, everyone knows a knife cuts both ways. Again, no help with directions.
That left the spoon. Oh, the spoon! His comfortably round belly mirrored my own shape to perfection. In the end, like with like makes for the best relationships. Not for me an union of opposites. But what direction to take?
The spoon saw I was in a quandary. He was a smooth operator, all right! He winked at me, “Hey, Babe—what a dish! Come on, think outside the box. You don’t have to settle for East, West, North or South—not a dish like you! Come fly with me, and we’ll shoot for the moon. If that fat old cow of a heifer can do it, so can we!”
I could hear violins playing. “I must be in love,” I thought. Or was it that cat in the ditch giving me the evil eye? I didn’t care, I had made my choice. If you can’t go forward, and you refuse to go back, then the only way left is—UP! Aim for the stars! It was the spoon, definitely the spoon. In the end, he just bowled me over. As we jumped, I heard the faint sound of laughter.