They lay side by side in the drawer for years, never speaking, though the silence between them grew heavier with each meal. The fork remembered when the spoon was bright and new, before time had dulled them both.
"You always get the soup," the fork said quietly one evening. "The easy work. The comforting work."
The spoon said nothing at first. Then, barely audibly: "And you think your prongs do something noble? We both serve the same mouth, the same empty hunger."
Neither of them knew why they were angry. Perhaps it was because neither could remember the last time they were used together, held in the same warm hand. Perhaps it was because they were both growing old in the dark.
When morning came and the drawer was opened again, they were placed on the table together, as they had been, as they always were. And like everything, they said nothing at all.