I Love How This Spoon Feels When I Spank You
I was in a housewares store over the weekend, early, and was looking for a good spatula to go with my new non-stick omlette pan. There were so many to choose from, I thought Oh, great, this could go on for days.
I was weighing the difference between two different brands, each the same size. One felt significantly heavier, which I thought would be useful for some things, while other things might need a lighter touch. I switched hands, and felt the same, only the one that was previously iin my right hand felt even heavier in my left hand, but I’m right handed so that’s probably to be expected.
Next to me, a woman was grabbing at a bag full of plastic utensils, the basic kind that someone in their first apartment, or who doesn’t really cook, might think about buying, depending.
“Look Sarah! Only $4.99 for all of these!” She said to the woman in her 30s who I assumed was her daughter.
“I’ll have to see how they feel.” Sarah said, not looking up from the French press she had in her hand, lifting.
“Do you believe that?” the mom was saying, I guess to me. I was the only other person nearby.
“They’re just spoons!” she said, more directly to me this time, with a kind of uplift that made it sound like a question, or some sort of request. Some kind of qualification of her assuredly quantifiable opinion of fact.
My mom wouldn’t say something like that. She might think it, but she’d keep quiet about it.
I quickly put my two spatulas back on the rack and jettisoned over to the shower curtains even though I had just bought a shower curtain and was quite happy with it.
I stretched out a clear-ish one with colored fish printed on it - my old shower curtain in fact - and watched the mom and daughter bicker about spoons. The mom held one up, waving it sternly at her daughter, as if trying to turn her point into a threat.
The daughter turned swiftly and walked off, leaving her mother looking terribly weak with such a lightweight spoon in her hand.
I waited until they both were gone before going back and spending an hour deciding on the right spatula, the one that felt just right.
If I Tell You I Like It Will You Take It Off Now?
Why? Don’t you like it?
I think I look great in it
& you don’t love me.
I Want You To Think I’m A Part Of It
I am feeling like myself but it’s the kind of myself that I was before I started to play with fire and I never played with fire for fear of getting burned, so that’s a new one I think. It’s a toss up, really, whether or not what carries these skinny bones is the same thing as what carries a camel and a needle’s eye or whatever that one was. In the bathroom that night I cried when you wouldn’t show me your dick and I thought that was so damn stupid and said so. I showed you mine, you know. You were there. But I’m not going to get into the trouble limping across the floor now, that wormy wood that I never bought a rug for to keep it from getting wormier. And that is why we’re sitting here in a restaurant having dinner. And you’re telling me about your day.
I am interested in what you’re saying. I just wanted to know the time because I have to get up early in the morning and I didn’t want to interrupt you by asking, even though you really do have a lovely watch. And I’ve already told you that twice I think.
I am sorry your mom is sick. My mom is sick too, but I don’t talk about it. She is embarrassed and wouldn’t want me to say anything that wasn’t true. I usually get the impression that the word lies is so harsh, and yet if we used the word fiction in the same way a lot of people would be out of a job. And, basically, aren’t the meanings of both words pretty harsh, any way you hear it?
I am just tired, sorry. If I pay for dinner, can I go now without you giving me a guilt trip and not calling until I do first? What if I said please?
