(found in the cutlery drawer)
Can you send more spoons? I’ve run out of spoons. I’ve had to get rid of all my spoons.
See, one of the spoons got all bendy in the middle. I was digging into a carton of ice cream that had been in the freezer too long, that had turned almost into a brick more than anything smooth and creamy. False advertising, like usual. Then, of course, the spoon bent. Right in half it bent. So I threw it out.
But then the others, well, it’s hard to use a spoon sometimes. It’s hard to use a spoon when you’re always scared of getting a glimpse of that reflection. Forks are just great. There’s no reflection in a fork. Knives – well, as long as you hold them properly – well, knives are just as good as forks are, perhaps.
But spoons, well, there’s always something lurking. I can hear the footsteps in the halls sometimes. I can hear the voice of an old woman croaking in the middle of the night, calling for her dear Susan. Her voice breaks and wavers.
So I can’t have any of the spoons in the house. Well, but then I can’t eat soup anymore. I’ve got to drink it all the time, except I get too anxious about letting it cool, so I always drink it too hot. It burns my throat. I need the spoons back, but I’ve gotten rid of them all. Send me more spoons, Dianne.
The mirrors in this place are all smashed. I cannot see what is behind me.
And the old woman is calling out again. Usually she doesn’t call this early in the day. Usually she doesn’t call my name either.