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47 Spoon John Updike’s image stays with me—his male character admires a slender young woman whose collarbones strain toward each other and almost meet in a dip in which he envisions placing a teaspoon. I can’t help but think that this lovely girl could not let herself eat whatever was once in that spoon on the spoon rest of her throat, whatever was cooking in her body that became a willowy stove. I imagine the most expensive of silver teaspoons, perhaps the handle monogrammed with her family’s initials, lying there like a necklace without a chain. No matter how much I suck air into my throat, I can’t make a hollow place for a spoon on my neck. I can’t even really see my collarbones unless I hunch my shoulders and roll them forward. I wasn’t ever exquisitely delicate, but I don’t blame John Updike for that. To this day, I look for women with teaspoon indentations and admire them like Updike’s character did. He moves on to other descriptions—the girl in the supermarket with ice-cream-scoop breasts. Sometimes before I take a bite of something sweet, I use my spoon as an upside down mirror. duhamelKtext.indd 47 12/1/08 11:15:21 AM ...

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