Be it the spoon? Or the fork?

I snarf down the last of my $6 fast food taco combo meal and feel it hit my stomach with such weight that feels like all the food I’ve avoided since December was simultaneously shoved down my gullet. This three o’clock in the afternoon lunch was a mistake but I had to eat. I read another paragraph in The Disappearing Spoon: And Other True Tales of Madness, Love, and the History of the World from the Periodic Table of the Elements and glance over at my plastic utensils. The two enchiladas, taco, and a tostada have dribbled an array of lettuce, guacamole and other scrumptiousness in the styrofoam container which servers as my china. This is cubical life in all its glory. The spoon seems like the correct implement to finish off the delightfulness. Can’t let any of that six dollars go to waste. I pick up the fork and knife to stow away for later. They plastic utensils have intrinsic value in the office place. I take pause. Looking away from the Kindle I hold the fork and knife in one hand, and the spoon in the other. A long silent stare is interrupted by the voice in my head, "but which one is more valuable?!" The spoon of course! It and the knife join the pile of plastic office currency hidden away in a draw behind a file folder labeled "do not eat."