Elegy for Flatware

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It may not look like much, but that bottom spoon was more than a year and a half old, which is a pretty good run for a plastic utensil. Plastic forks were always in abundance at our old office, but spoons were a rare breed.

The nearly pristine replacement was a gift from critus when he heard my muttered imprecations (and, just maybe, and Lame-Vader-esque "Nooooooooooooooooo!") when the deceased snapped, having stirred its last dollop of honey into one last cup of green tea.

The spoon is dead. Long live the spoon.

There is no spoon.