Drying the dishes, he once more sorted the silverware into the proper slots in the plastic holder. He had come to despise this weekly task.

No one else cared that the big and little spoons fit snugly in their own little homes. Nor did they care that the dessert and the dinner forks fit the same way in other rectangular resting places.

"Morons. Fucking morons," he huffed.

He removed the knives to point the blades in the same direction. One fell, point first. He inhaled sharply. Turns out it wasn't worth ever wondering if the knife would pierce his foot.

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