of a fork

it was a silver fork on the table, next to the large plate, the white one with hand painted flowers. there was a grand excitement in her four sharp points, a prepared feeling of being able to lift pieces of the meal to feed a mouth, whatever mouth she were given to feed on this particular night.
She liked to sink her teeth into steaks. Little juicy strips filled with some captured blood. She would dive into them, head first, the knife would then free the part she was able to carry and she would hold on to the meat until it was removed from her. She could feel how good the meal was by the mere reaction of the food on her skin, but also by the frequency with which she was sunk into what was on the plate. Sometimes the knife and her would perform more elaborate dances. First she would hold on to a little piece of meat, then the knife would stroke her side, leaving some potatoes and maybe sauce on her back. She was a bit worried about metal touching metal, of course, but it was a pleasure to see that she was much more important than the untrusted knife. The knife was never allowed to enter the mouth, as far as she knew. (The spoons would make some stupid claims in the drawer, but she barely ever shared a meal with one of them, so she did not believe a word.)
Her favorite dishes were probably those eaten by some Americans who made sure to cut the entirety of their meal into pieces and then, after retiring the knife next to the plate, had a very private experience with the beautiful four pronged fork.
She loved to hold on to food, she loved to sink her teeth into anything spongy, something that like a piece of bread could then collect a sauce, some oil, some fat, some blood. She was the guide then, moving on the plate swiftly, drawing wild figures on the surface of the plate.
At the end of a meal she would often be put on the side, right next to the knife, resting, often holding on to him, ready to say good bye.
The moments that followed were the ones she feared most. They were the moments she disliked. Sometimes a hand would pick her up and run her through soapy water. Sometimes a much too hot shower would almost scorch her delicate sides. If she was lucky, the cleaning treatment was gentle. On some less fortunate days she would end up under a pile of her sisters, barely exposed to cleaner, cramped and wet.
In the dryer then there would be some fearless conversations. The fish fork girlfriends would argue about who's left and who is right.
There was a soft spot in the velvet lined drawer. Soft and dry. She would spend days in her favorite position sometimes, spooning with the others, resting, dreaming. She dreamt of scratching her circles into the belly of a spoon, while collecting more and more delicious pasta. She dreamt of being cleaned by a silver cloth. A much happier procedure than those buckets full of chemicals. She dreamt of traveling to far away places, tasting other foods, of being wrapped into a napkin with the daring mr. knife...
He was a horrible friend, nobody trusted him, of course, his blade was sharp and he could be quite hurtful. But he was her favorite partner after all. She loved to be close to him before a meal, clean in a warm blanket, and after, messy, sweaty, covered with delicious foods they just had shared. And even during the meal, when they performed their close and exciting dances, he was the only one in who's sides she was able to see herself clearly. She saw her slowly accumulated scratches and little blemishes, but he reflected them quite clearly, with no comments, not making things worse than they were, as the stupid spoon loved to do...
She sometimes looked over to the knife on the other side of the drawer and she knew he was the only one she loved more than food itself.
She dreamt of being passed on for generations. Just him and her, a perfectly matching set. Maybe a salad fork could come with them, maybe a little desert fork... Who needed spoons these days... pasta was to be eaten without them anyway...