With apologies in advance to Rho for a few minor similarities to Howie's fork!

I am Nick's Fork.

Thanksgiving was a lonely time this year. Usually there were many to fill the table, sharing love, laughter and each other's company. But this year? This year there were only two: my Nick and his friend, the tattooed one.

The silences were subdued, almost eerie.

The sadness was palpable and I ached for them.

Dinner was a silent affair, punctuated only by brief phone calls from distant relatives. Of course, they would both put up a false front to the unseen callers, no need to let their misery show and bring others down.

Left by the side of the plate, I was soon as cold and lonely as Nick. The leftover gelatin salad congealed into a sticky mass on my once-shiny surface and I longed for his cleansing touch. (The one redeeming feature of solitary dinners in this house was the ecstacy of being handwashed in steamy bubbles and being caressed by his long fingers.)

Darkness had descended hours before, and his friend had long since retreated to a guest room upstairs when the doorbell rang. Summoned from a drowsy slumber on the couch, I heard his footsteps pad to the door.

Not knowing what had transpired, I was pleasantly surprised to find myself picked up and carried toward the kitchen. A hasty rinse in the warm water left me ready for whatever was about to come and I was anxious to see what was happening.

Seated at the kitchen table, he opened the white box that had been delivered and began to read:
  "Nick, just some holiday comfort. Hope your holiday wasn't too lonely. Love, the Guys"

Aren't they sweet?! Not bothering with neatness, I felt myself plunged deeply into something warm and sticky. Mmm ... apple pie. Lifting me to his mouth, he wrapped his lips around me, savoring the sticky heat. Oh mercy, did he just moan?

He did and I felt the vibrations to my core. Licking me clean, he repeated his actions, this time swirling his tongue around me, playing in the spaces between my tines. You know, those are hard places to reach? But he knows just how to do it. A talented tongue my Nicky has, yes indeed!

What seems like hours later he sits, sated, holding me gently, turning me round and round in his fingers. I see him staring blanky into the distance, and I wonder what or *who* is on his mind.

I may never know, but I know this: I have played my part in pleasing him this night. My work is done. Until tomorrow.