Spoon, by Thomas Cooper

Scavenging the cutlery drawer, I come across this sterling silver baby spoon with an ornate M engraved on the handle, and think, Now what the fuck? No one I know has a first, middle, or last initial M. The odds, I realize, are astronomical, so I call my mother to get down to the bottom of this. “No, it’s a defiantly M-less family,” she says. “Maybe it’s one of those ex-girlfriends? Wasn’t there a Mandy somewhere in there? A Melissa Something-or-Rather?” No, I say, and maintain that surely out of all those wayward aunts and uncles and cousins there has to be someone with an initial M. Nope, she says. Then she hands over my father and his contribution is, “Maybe it means motherfucker.” As the evening wears on the spoon business nags me. I’m almost sure I remember the names of all my significant girlfriends, though when I try picturing them the faces elude me. Too bad calling most of those girls is out of the question because catching up would be nice, holidays and all. Instead I sit at my kitchen table mulling it over, faucet plinking on the dirty dishes in the sink, voices of the couple in the apartment next door raging again. “What are the odds,” I say, eating my peanut butter dinner straight from the jar with my motherfucking baby spoon.