I heard the squeak of the utensil drawer and he returned to me with two blue ceramic tea bowls. I think it might have been rice pudding.

It was our last meal together there.

He was full of all those things I wasn't -- a blank stare at the TV as if the whole world had melted away, a mind-set of trust for people (innocent until proven guilty), eyes of concern when appropriate. But most importantly he had a lust for life, a genuine spark of enthusiasm for all things exciting, new, dangerous or intriguing.

He was just sitting slowly savoring the whatever-it-was in his bowl, and I was forcing myself not to eat mine with my hands. If we were two dogs I would have finished both mine and his before he even had a chance to swallow the third bite.

After I had finished, I took this respite to watch him as he stared innocently at the TV again. He had cheeks like a five-year-old, moist with zeal -- and soft. Either the world hadn't beaten him down yet -- or he had retained enough hope to not be discouraged.

"That's what I want to do," he said emphatically, pointing at the screen with his ladle.

I didn't even want to see what he was talking about; I knew it would somehow insult me by flaunting its frivolity in my fearful face. It'd be something to do with fun, free falling, femininity or anything else that made me queasy.

"Oh yeah?" I said in a loathsome monotone that went undetected. I turned my head as if to direct my attention to this mysterious activity, but I was really just looking at the wall behind the TV. After a while of this I watched him again, his focus completely submersed in reverie, lower jaw hanging idly - vulnerable as usual, and oblivious to the fact.

After a few minutes he turned to me and said, "You wanna get going?" while setting down his bowl. He had left a little bit of food in it.

The phrase "you wanna get going" had always filled me with anxiety; I imagined that's what was said to the gentleman right before the walk to his execution. It is generally spoken faux-calm, in hopes of quelling panic.

Pushing through said panic, "OK, sure."

He unplugged the TV and I opened the door for him.

We headed out the door to the car. I took one last look at the apartment and thought about all the good times we had in there, because that's what you do when you move away. I thought about the first time his eyes gave him away and told me he loved me, the crazy night when we were a little drunk and he stabbed me with a delicious scooping motion, the last time he made me cry, when he said something stupid about how I should not be afraid to move away from here, how I should let go of the past and embrace the future. But he didn't say it with enough compassion in his voice and I felt like he was mocking me.

I didn't want to let go of that either.

He drove too fast for my taste, especially since we were in a moving van with all our stuff inside. In a way I just wanted to get it over with and be at the new house already, but at the same time I wanted to grab a blanket and crawl under it where our bed used to be and hide there in its warmth. I had etched my mark into each wall of that place -- how could I turn my back on it? Those floors, ceilings, the microwave, the toilet, even that little dent in the closet door that happened on that drunken night -- they're all parts of me, and he was just too eager to let it pass.

Still, it was hard to deny his hopeful gaze on the ride there, a sunrise beckoning a new day.

While trying to keep the wheel straight with his left hand he grabbed my chin with the other, looked me in the eye and said, "Honey, it's all right, we'll dent up the new place too, you'll see."

I chuckled with broken breath and tried to think about our drunken debauchery instead of the times that made me happy, sad or laugh.

Fork is always on the attack, ready to kill, pierce or subdue any surprise influences -- good or bad. Spoon is there to embrace it all, from a fluid temperament to loose bits of this and that. Fork has its place, but Spoon is the Almighty, the martyr. Acceptant of all kinds, wishing to change none.

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