It was dawn in the office and the teaspoon twiddled her thumbs ostentatiously. Twiddle this way, twiddle that. As she wiggled her body side to side, the ornate filigree carvings on the handles sparkled this way and that. When will he come, she thought? She meant HIM of course. The one. The chosen one. She lived for the moment when HE came over to make his tea. Choose me, choose me she willed, as after selecting his favourite mug, his hand would hover over the cutlery drawer. She was, by far, the most beautiful of the teaspoons, but sometimes he was distracted and picked one unworthy of him. Now there were only three teaspoons left, the others having been pushed behind the back of the drawer and having fallen to the depths of a cutlery afterlife, were destined to moulder unloved forever.
She rubbed herself on a kitchen towel to make sure she gleamed so he would pick HER. He was always in early, one of the first, so she had a good chance. She dreamed of the moment his warm fingers caressed her body, lifted her up and placed her into the sugar bowl. Her nakedness covered momentarily by a powdery mountain and then, as quickly, he unclothed her as the sugar slid into the hot tea. When he plunged her into the mug she was shocked, burned and then warmth spread through her body as he stirred her round and round. Dizzy with joy, she let all thoughts go, and then he withdrew her. Sometimes she rested, spent on the saucer next to his teacup. Once, gloriously, he had used her again to pick out a bit of biscuit that had fallen into his tea and she had entered his mouth, but she was so overcome with that memory she couldn’t think about it.