Wanting

Harold was a spoon.

He spent most of his days in a drawer, away from public scrutiny, and he liked it that way. Harold didn't want anyone to know about the rough nick all down the back of his handle. That flaw hurt most people's hands when they held him and prevented him from stacking quite right, so he usually sat at the bottom of the pile, year after year. He didn't mind the lack of use, but he couldn't stand the snickers and aloof attitudes of the other spoons, calling him a second. Still, the spoons that came back to the drawer boasted of their experience: warm teas, bitter coffees, yogurts… In spite of his fears, Harold longed to try these things.

Barry Levovich stole spoons.

Swiping the odd spoon from work now and then didn't really seem like much of a crime to Barry, at least at first, so he went along with it. He'd never seen his shadowy "extra" employer clearly, but he knew his name was Stapleton. In the end, Barry didn't care what a man who paid for spoons—obtained legally or not—looked like, as long as the money paid to him was always in focus. To that end, he took a number of part–time jobs across Melbourne that afforded him broader choice.

Harold felt a gentle nudge when the drawer opened. He observed the spoons above him lifted out then heard the clatter as they were tossed into the drawer's other compartments. He saw the hand reaching for him, and felt himself lifted from his resting place. He'd been out of the drawer before, but had always been put back.

"Vinecrest stamp," Barry mumbled.

Shortly after taking on his mildly illegal task, it became obvious his employer was looking for a particular spoon, but didn't know which it was. Incorrect spoons paid a little. Some paid more. However, the tremendous compensation for the right spoon had been made very plain, so Barry became a spoon expert.

Harold's proverbial heart was in his throat when Barry flipped him over, for a person so versed in flatware would surely be aghast at a flaw as obvious as his. Harold steeled himself for the toss back into the drawer or even the waste bin. He felt small. He felt unwanted. He felt like everything the other spoons had said, mocking him, was true. He felt… wet.

Harold realized that he had fallen into a cup of coffee. He could scarcely believe it. This person, this expert, had chosen him, despite the gash in his finish. And the flavor! He never imagined how good it was to take in the coffee, to feel it throughout, to be warmed by it. It was heaven.

Sunset painted muted tones across the dark park. Stapleton stood in the shadow of a Eucalyptus tree, a black silhouette to Barry. There were no lights near the picnic bench where Barry waited with his garbage bag of spoons. Harold lurked near the bottom.

"My finest huntsman," Stapleton croaked, "the others have failed miserably this week. What do you have for me?"

Barry sat upright. "What others?"

Stapleton's retort was raspy. "It has been years, and still you have not obtained it for me. I was forced to widen my search. Open the bag and step aside."

Barry moved back. Stapleton lurched to the bag as he always had, grabbing a handful. He examined each of them. One he set on the table, the rest were tossed on the ground. He reached for another handful, then another, until the bag was emptied. Ten spoons lay on the table, the rest on the ground.

"Not there," Stapleton moaned. "I'll give you ten dollars each for the ones on the table, and twenty for the rest and your trouble."

Barry nodded. Not bad extra income for the week. He grabbed the bag to pick up the mess.

Harold trembled at the bottom of the bag.

Forgotten.

Unwanted.

Unwelcome.

"Wait!" Stapleton shouted. "There's still one in there."

His dark employer came close enough for Barry to see his face. It was twisted, marred by a jagged white scar that ran diagonally across to his empty eye socket.

Barry gasped.

Stapleton glared. "Now you know. Give me the bag."

Harold felt rough fingers yank him from the plastic.

Stapleton paused, running his fingers quickly over Harold. "Vinecrest. Yes, that was one of ours, I remember. New Excelsior modern. I worked on that line. Did we do those that day?"

Barry thought Stapleton said it oddly, as if discovering the truth as he said it.

Stapleton stroked Harold's flaw. "The fash!"

"What?"

"Fash," Stapleton replied. "Fitzhume was removing the fash from the blank with his lynisher. He was nearly done when a shard cut his face. I stepped to help him. He lost his balance. The machine came up into my face and hands. The blank fell into the pile for the dies that make the bowl of the spoon. The only one I missed."

"How's that?"

"I was the inspector. Old Penberthy promised that if I could catch 100% of the seconds in a half million run, he'd leave the factory to me in his will. He watched it happen."

Barry gaped at him. "He still wouldn't leave you the factory even though another worker injured you?"

"Ha! He wouldn't pay the medical bills and fired me, but the lawyers saw to that. In the end I got the factory and his fortune, too."

Stapleton held Harold in front of his face. "But I didn't have the one that got away, and I couldn't let go of that. I spent half that fortune on this. I had to have it, to find it."

Harold was flabbergasted. He had never once thought of himself as wanted.

Stapleton handed Barry five thousand dollars. "This spoon is exceedingly comfortable in my mangled fingers. I think I shall never need another."

Harold felt warm and loved… and always would.

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