A Matter of Spoons

A discarded wooden takeout spoon was teetering over the rim of an empty plastic broth bowl on the slatted bench, practically begging for someone to teach it gravity. I climbed onto the splintered wood, reared back, and drove my foot into the spoon's curved bowl like a catapult trigger. Fling! The thing launched straight up, flipped twice in the air, and clattered down square across my ears, showering my brow in cold drops of chili oil. I stood frozen in the orange glow of the stall's neon sign, crossed my arms, and loudly informed the empty bowl that I was merely testing the trajectory of wooden dining utensils.