The Pretty One: a Short Story

Prompt: Select a kitchen item; write from its perspective

Look. I know I’m pretty. I get it. I saw how your eyes traveled all across me and you didn’t want to sully me by putting me to work.

I get it.

Seriously, I know Whoever (God or Whoever you believe in) designed me made me to be beautiful, and no one likes feeling used.

But, I also don’t want to be this false idol. You hang me from the tile backsplash, thinking it an honor. Thinking I’d be grateful or something. You treat it like it’s a privilege.

And it’s not that I’m not appreciative. It’s just I think the other kitchen implements are going to start to talk.

I’m starting to feel like it’s a sacrifice. Like hanging a Norse god from a tree. Maybe I’m meant to hear their murmuring. Maybe I’m supposed to feel like this is a punishment.

They see me hanging with my turquoise detailing and they whisper among themselves. They tell themselves I’m arrogant or conceited.

I’m just a simple set of pans. I know. I know. It’s a compliment, especially since you can’t figure out how to use your stovetop, but a frying pan is supposed to fry things once and a while.

The other kitchen implements and utensils are starting to gossip, and honestly, that kind of hurts my feelings.

Whatever. I’m just pans, I guess. Maybe I’m overthinking this. That rag that hangs over the faucet likes to remind me that I’m overly dramatic and emotional, but seriously, what does it know? It’s just a scrap of fabric, you know?

It’s just not always easy being the pretty one.

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