I belong on a grand table, primly and precisely placed near a bone china gravy boat, translucent and glowing. In a room, high of ceiling, deep of velvet; curtains swooping their soft hush as sentinels of the dining room. I belong in a polished mahogany canteen, burnished highly, tucked in deep red velvet stalls, not chucked in a basket with all manner of twisted cutlery, most darkened with age, tarnished reputations rising from their rounded bowls. My delicate curves have graced the fine table of the same family for generations, in rooms full of soft candlelight, tinkling crystal and refined conversation. Known always as the Runcible Spoon, I belong in the slender hands of demure ladies, resting on starched linen laid with Limoges and Waterford. I am smooth and symmetrical, a hint of decoration - filigreed lace made of moonlight.
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