Not Quite a Tablespoon

Tensions increased in the domestic cold war between Mr. and Mrs. Elk.

Strained civility, already taut, stretched further as the diminutive missus found, for the she-didn’t-know-how-many-th time, even though they’d gone over and over this, the medium sized spoon set away with the teaspoons.

“What did we decide?” she asked in such a way to make sure there was not but one answer.

“About what?”

“The spoon,” she said.

“Which spoon is that?”

She threw. He ducked. The spoon flew into the buffet, clattered against, and cracked her grandmother’s china serving platter down the middle.

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