Last night I dropped Gene off at his motorcycle which he had left parked at Orinda BART. I was sitting in the car while he rummaged around in the back seat to collect his gear when he handed me a spoon.
“This looks familiar,” he said.
I took the spoon. “Yeah, I guess this is one of ours,” I said. “It feels a little heavier to me. I wonder how long it’s been back there?” I felt the spoon all over, examining it, and then put it on my bag so I would remember to bring it inside and wash it, which it definitely needed.
“It’s weird that someone would just leave a spoon in a parking lot,” Gene said, and I sat blinking for a moment, processing this, before flinging the spoon out of the car.
“Did you just pick this up off the ground and hand it to me?” I demanded, frantically grabbing for my hand sanitizer.
“Yes,” Gene said, attempting to be innocent but already laughing. “What? Was that not okay?”
“I guess I’ve never explicitly said this. Let me do so now: please do not pick trash up off the ground that’s covered with the remnants of someone else’s meal and hand it to me.”
“And now I know that,” said Gene.
The worst prank ever.